Ghosts of the Future's Past
by The Ferryman
Summary: TH-X1138 is lost in time. Their first battle with the Clans was a victory, but at heavy cost. As the Inner Sphere turns a cautious eye towards them, other forces are moving and Seeker Atalanta continues a quest that may lead to peace, dishonor, or worse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_War Room, Royal Palace_

_Tharkad City, Tharkad_

_Federated Commonwealth _

Melissa Steiner, watched silently as her aunt steadily refused to meet her gaze, instead pretending to peruse reports that the Archon _knew_ she had already thoroughly read. She had fond memories of the woman from her infrequent visits while growing up, though their relationship had cooled markedly after her mother's peace proposal and then formal alliance with the Federated Suns. For all intents and purposes that relationship had died the same day she married Hanse.

Whatever their differences, however, Nondi Steiner was not one of the senior-most generals because of her socio-political connections which were immense—not only was she Duchess of Gallery, but remained sixth in line for the Archonship of the Federated Commonwealth, though should she ever inherit _that_ title Melissa knew her aunt's first action would be to spin the old Federated Suns off and leave it to its own devices. Nondi's posting to the High Command and made her a convenient choice to become the Archon's senior military advisor. The only real problem was that she was a staunch Lyran supremacist, and if anything was going to save the Commonwealth (as both woman thought of it, though applying the term to a political entity with very different borders) it was going to be the Federated (Suns) half.

For the most part Melissa was happy to delegate the war-fighting to Hanse. He not only had the experience for the job, but the skill and talent for it as well. But even messages transmitted by hyper-pulse generator only traveled so fast, even those with special priority routing. Having reports routed through Tharkad added to transmission times and cost, it would have been cheaper and faster for ComStar to send messages via their most efficient routing rather than dictating at least one point on that route, but it also allowed her to, if necessary, short circuit the communications-loop. Considering the time it took to charge a KF-drive, or move from planetary orbit to a jump-point, there was little point, but on other occasions…

"Well?" Melissa asked sharply.

General Lady Nondi Steiner, Duchess of Gallery, ADC, MH, etc., looked up at her niece. "I know no more about this Task Force TH-X1138 or something called the '3d Cavalry Regiment' than you do, Niece." She tossed the reader onto the table. "They fought well enough, though, and Hauptman-General Felix Steiner is quite able. A waste of his talents, sticking him with an under-strength regiment of Avalon Hussars."

"I can't say that I've ever heard of him," the Archon said.

"A distant branch of the family. He was one of the volunteer observers that joined Davion during the 4th Succession War," Nondi said dismissively.

Melissa, for her part, managed to restrain the biting comment for the dismissive tone her aunt had used for both her husband and his wedding present. Then she managed to restrain rolling her eyes at her aunt using the tone in the first place.

"Let us assume, for the moment, that they are willing to be an associate power," Melissa said. "They can't stay there. At the Wolves' and Falcons' current rate of advance they'll be cut off within weeks, even if Clan Wolf holds true to its promise and doesn't try to invade Planting again."

"You want to treat them as one of your husband's armies?" Nondi asked with a sneer. "Those Feeblies couldn't even—"

"That is quite enough Davion-bashing for one day, General," Melissa said. Her voice was abrupt and cold and the bite in it surprised her at least as much as it did the other woman. A small voice told her that this wasn't the way to do things while a somewhat louder voice said that she should have done this months ago. Most of her, however, simply ignored both. "You didn't want to get into politics when my mother asked for your help against Alessandro; it is far too late for you to get into politics now. You have made your opinions about my husband and the Federated Commonwealth abundantly clear. I am not asked for your support, of either my marriage or the alliance. I am not even asking for you to help defend the worlds of the _former_ Federated Suns. But I am asking that you help me defend the Federated Commonwealth. Can you do that, _Aunt_, or do I need to request your resignation?"

Nondi—_no_, Melissa told herself, _General Steiner_—glared at her, but she looked away first.

"Ridderkerk," she said.

"Less than twenty light years?" Melissa asked.

"Ridderkerk, Skokie, Tamar," the general said. "That should buy us a little time for your…the First Prince…to decide what to do with them, while also supporting the capital of the Tamar March."

It also put them squarely inside the Tamar Theater, which happened to be commanded by her son. Richard wasn't quite a social general, but he was no military mastermind, Melissa knew. Fortunately he had a very good staff, not to mention all the work Hanse was doing.

"We'll also send them a copy of naval astro-charts for the Tamar March," Nondi went on, ignoring the Archon's silence. "Those are plotted closely enough to use the L1 points, and the most stable of the transitory points. We can let Duke Selwa know they are coming. I don't know if our munitions or spare parts will work with their machines, but we can have food, water, and hydrogen waiting for them. Joy Corelli is command of the 26th Lyran Guards. She's as good as they come and the 26th is as solid a unit as you'll find in the…Commonwealth. She'll be able to integrate them into her defense strategy if the Wolves get that far, no problem."

Melissa restrained a cutting remark about assuming this Task Force, from wherever it was, would blindly allow itself to be subordinated the way her aunt had just suggested. Finally she just nodded. "Send them astro charts of the entire Tamar March, and _suggest_ the Ridderkerk-Skokie-Tamar travel axis, but do not require it. Also inform them that as much fuel, food, and water will be waiting for them on Tamar as they need…and _inquire_ about any military supplies they might need."

It wasn't a perfect plan, she decided, but it would do for now. Selwa was likely to prove…uncooperative, of course. "Then arrange for a command circuit to be established from here to Tamar."

"A command circuit?"

Melissa nodded, but didn't say anything; her mind was already considering potential people for a combination diplomatic/military mission.

Ooo

_Temporary Officers Quarters_

_Foshinur Spaceport Complex_

_Planting_

Word filtered down from Command that the Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth—actually it was the _Federated_ Commonwealth these days an amalgamation via marriage of the old Commonwealth and the Fed Suns, which probably explained the who Steiner/Avalon Hussar thing—had suggested that we pull back to Tamar. The strategic brief suggested that the woofies were going to flank around us in the next couple of weeks. Even if they upheld the local commander's word that Planting was free from invasion we'd face being cut off from convenient lines of retreat, or at least that was how the Archon saw it. Apparently the general tech decline hadn't left KF Jump-drive vessels untouched, hence the reliance on system-hopping and the disregard for deep-space jumps. It made sense in a way since solar-sail power collecting was far gentler on the drive cores than the alternatives.

Still, we didn't set out for Tamar right away. We were evacuating the rest of the 41st with us and they had to be assigned spare droppers—which had to be brought in from where the rest of the fleet was hanging—and then there were the usual tasks of post-battle cleanup. Tank and 'mech recovery crews were sent out to salvage woofie and Cav alike. DropShips were filled with captured supplies the woofies had already landed for their logistic base, whether it was supposed to support their invasion or just a planetary garrison we didn't know, but there were weapons, ammunition, even whole 'mechs and aerospace fighters. A construction battalion was landed and immediately went to work fighting fires started by the destruction of the hangers before turning its attention to repairing the trashed runways.

I spent the time sorting through the lists of people available for my new cavalry squadron. Considering the effectiveness of _Dagger_ I decided to use it as a model for my TOE. George was the senior-ranking survivor of _Dagger_, and got drafted in to serve as my Exec, while Maximilian Irons kept his posting and became my Command Sergeant Major. Tammy Wilson was dead, but both William Penn-Drakkon and Ivania Chomskya had survived and became the commanders of my second and third line troops, while I asked Eugene Mahler, formerly _Heavy_-Six, to put together and lead a troop of medium/light-heavy 'mechs as a screening/scouting formation, and he requested Leonard Moseley—as soon as he was released from the hospital—be transferred from his old company to act as his 1st Sergeant. Annabelle Oakley had survived ejecting from her _Rifleman_, and I put in a recommendation for a battlefield commission to 1LT and designated her as the OIC of an air-defense section of four mechs. The Legion didn't have any prospects that appealed to me, but I submitted a request for a battery of 'mechs from the 5th Royal Artillery Regiment.

I was halfway through writing up a formal request for a lance of engineers to be a permanent part of my squadron rather that an ad hoc attachment, when my terminal blanked. For a moment I thought I had just lost a request form I had spent nearly an hour on when it was replaced by a man's face.

"Merlin?" I asked after a moment. His voice was familiar enough, but I had only seen him the once and a few days of field hygiene will change anyone's appearance.

"Hear you're putting together a new unit," he said.

"That's right," I said. "Cavalry squadron. First of the Fourth."

"Good unit," he said. "Just about the most effective Indian-fighter regiment that the United States fielded."

"That's right," I said carefully. I knew the 3d Cav's history well enough, but hadn't had the time to do more than barely scrape the highlights of the 4th Cavalry Regiment's history.

"I want in."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Look," he said, "there's a limit to how much we can do from a ship. Most of us are going to end up going solo and waging an electronic guerilla war. That's the nature of our abilities, and the realities of the situation, taking into account interplanetary transport and the enemy's apparent organization. The woofies don't seem to use the type of battlefield systems we're trained to hack. No sophisticated artillery nets, no passive distributed sensor nets, their comms are old-school rather than fully integrated com-webs. I can help, you know I can. I can bring you a lance of _Prowler_s, but that prick Carson says I need your permission."

I frowned. SFers, and CyberPunks were about as 'special' as SF got, always seemed to do their own thing. I couldn't imagine anyone short of maybe General Winters telling them 'no'. Especially since what Merlin did seemed sort of like Black Magic. It wasn't. I _knew_ it wasn't. But if someone had asked me to do what he did the most I could have managed was a blank look.

"Sure," I said, "if you have techs that can support them and any classified gear…and can train the assigned tech force to do the same for redundancy."

"Done," he said.

"And I'm going to need an Intel Officer."

"I hate staff work," he said.

I shrugged. There just weren't that many staff officers who were competent to pilot a mech. Merlin, I figured, ought to at least be able to do the job.

"Fine," he muttered.

So I added another lance to my TOE.

Three troops of fourteen, a lance of air-defense, six artillery mechs, a lance of engineers, a lance of E-war mechs, I was up to sixty mechs, really wanted to expand the AD section to match the artillery, and still hadn't addressed my command set up. By the SLDF Book I suppose I should have contented myself with a Command Lance that was really led by George while I dealt with business. The Black Watch operated _two_ command lances at the battalion level to make the command-team more survivable. What I really wanted was to take that one lance further and give the Sergeant Major and independent lance. It also appealed to the little part of me that was still the infantryman I had started out as, the little part of me that sometimes looked at a TOE and couldn't help but seeing fire-teams and squads instead of lances and companies. The same part would also insist that the First Sergeant really needed to be able to be anywhere instead of chained to his company commander.

The problem was that if I requested those two ADA-mechs _and _the 12-mech command force, I'd have 74 mechs on my TOE. That was nearly two-thirds a SLDF-school mech-regiment.

I finally went ahead and submitted it as my preferred TOE. I put together a second more austere TOE that had three line troops, two command lances, and a lance each of E-war mechs, artillery, and air-defense. Signed, sealed, date-stamped, forwarded.

I pulled up the next document in my electronic in-tray.

Requisition forms for a new 'mech.

Joy.

Xxx

_Mech-Bay, SLDS Abyss_

_Planting Orbit_

It was early evening when I reported aboard the _Abyss_. The _Colossus_-class dropship and its launch-pad had been constructed under Pudget Sound in complete secrecy as an emergency escape vessel for the First Lord and his or her family. I had never been briefed on its construction, had, in fact, only learned of it when I had been assigned at literally the last moment to Major MacIntosh's lance. Aside from being capable of making a submerged takeoff (once), it also carried more armor and weapons than a stock _Colossus_. The main ground force bays had been removed, but it carried a wing of fighters, and a generous supply of ammunition.

I was shown to one of the lower cargo bays that I vaguely remembered piloting _Bun Bun_ aboard more than a decade before, then my guide left me. The vast bay was empty and dark, but there were lights on in one corner so I walked across the bay to find Amanda and Victor standing, and sitting, just inside a ring of light that shown on a solitary mech I had never seen before. I didn't see any guards, but I knew that there had to be at least one around somewhere. I hadn't seen any by the hatch and Colonel Hazen wouldn't have put up for them to have no guard. Whoever it was, they were probably hiding in a shadow somewhere.

"Roland, it's good that you came," Amanda said. "What do you think?" she asked, gesturing towards the mech.

"I don't recognize it," I said with a shrug. It was big, probably treading right on the upper maximum of how big a combat-capable mech could be built. A wide chest narrowed to a slim waist, then upright forward-jointed legs suggested a rather high center of gravity, that could make it surprisingly nimble, but also prone to tipping. Wide shoulders connected two beefy-shaped arms. The torso, up into the cockpit head, was oddly-shaped, reminiscent of a suit of plate armor from Terra's Dark Age. And to top things off, it was shiny. I don't mean brand-new shiny or parade-gloss paint shiny, I mean the entire thing was covered with a thin coat of metal that had been polished until it could be used as a mirror.

"It's _Excalibur_," she said.

The _Excalibur_ had been around for centuries, a quick but lightly-armored 70-ton machine with a gauss rifle in its right arm and an LRM-20 rack in its left shoulder. This one didn't look anything like that. This mech was larger, _much_ larger, and lacked the _Excalibur_'s distinctive cone-shaped cockpit/head assembly. Both arms had weapons in them, a ballistic weapon with an oddly-squared muzzle set below the aperture of a more conventional laser. Additional energy weapons—PPC emitters this time, though small ones—were mounted in the side torsos, and the housing for a laser point-defense system stood out on its right shoulder.

"It doesn't look like one," I said.

"Not _an_ _Excalibur_," Amanda said, stamping her foot as she glared at me, "_The Excalibur_." Her expression sobered and she turned back towards mech. "It's the BattleMech that fat bastard had custom-made for father," she said soberly. "Beyond cutting edge. Stuff even you didn't have." She set a hand on the arm of Victor's life-support chair, "We want you to have it, to replace _Bun Bun_."

"Custom-builds aren't good for a military force," I said. "Commonality of parts, ammunition, and armor is an issue. Also, odd mechs tend to get shot-at first on the assumption that they're specialized for some purpose and taking them out will put a crimp in your enemy's plans."

"_Abyss_ had the full stock of spares brought on board the same time it was," Amanda said. "And we had mechanics go over it years ago. Apparently whoever put it together was thinking more than the fat bastard was. We may not be able to replace some parts once the stocks run out—not unless we can get _Vulcan_ to build them, if that's even possible—but there is apparently no reason why standard parts can't be used, though there will be some degradation in performance."

"Size?" I asked, stalling for time

"A hundred tons," Amanda said.

"Speed?" I asked dubiously.

"Just over a hundred kilometers an hour."

Victor's vocoder buzzed. "It has a ground speed comparable to that model of _Longbow_ the 3d Cav favored…the same ones that you specified for the Quarterhorse. Sixteen tons of ferro-fibrous armor, twin railguns each with an independent 45-round magazine, paired extended-range large lasers and light-weight extended-range particle-projection cannons."

"Ground speed?" I asked. It was an odd kind of clarification on Victor's part. The improved booster the Cavalry used, and the multi-environment jets used by the Marines, had problems scaling up for the larger mechs. Standard jets were available of course, but there was a reason why the vast majority of assault-class mechs weren't built with jump jets.

"It has a new type of jump jet developed from the LAM program that utilizes direct-feed fusion-plasma injection instead of laser-pumped air the way ordinary jets—or super-heating, as those used by the Cavalry—do. They are very light and low-bulk for the thrust they impart.

"Three semi-modular weapon bays. The two side bays are each capable of up to five tons of weapons, ammunition, electronics pallets or other gear. The center bay can only handle four-tons, usually an advanced targeting computer that can enhance all of the permanently mounted weapons, although it is capable of interfacing with the modular weapon packs. The computer itself is semi-modular as well, which provides some redundancy in the event of battle damage."

"I authorized your preferred squadron TO&E," Amanda said. "General Carson didn't want to, but I went ahead and did it. I, _we_ need a Paladin, Roland. A standard-bearer. A flagship. Someone who can go out of show _this_ is who we are, _this_ is what we represent. That even in the Terran Hegemony, a waster kid from the bad side of the belt can—"

She stopped abruptly, and it took me a moment to realize I had scowled at her.

"Sorry," I said uncomfortably. She was so damn mature that sometimes it was hard to forget just how young she was.

"I don't know what I said," she muttered. "I mean, you haven't bothered to ever try to keep it a secret, and you've referred to yourself as a 'waster kid' before."

"That's because you were raised by people from the pits," I said, tossing in another bit of old slang.

"The bottom of gravity wells," Victor said. The vocoder robbed his voice of most inflection, but it wasn't a question.

I nodded.

"Okay, so what?" Amanda asked.

I had to think about that for a moment. Part of the problem was that I had done my best to put my past behind me, but to be honest I never really thought about the cultural differences before. Not the big things, but the kind of little every-day things that you take for granted. And part of the problem was that despite having spent most of her life in space, they had been raised by people who hadn't, or who at least had come from the bottom of a pit.

"What do you think of when I say 'waster'?" I asked.

"Someone who loiters around after they're out of school, doesn't have a job, doesn't really have a place to go, has no plan for where they want to go or what they want to be in life," Amanda said.

"Habitats don't come with a nice endless supply of oxy. In belter-idiom wasters are literally a 'waste of air,'" I said, trying to ignore the half-remembered particular kind of self-loathing. A mix of belief in that one didn't have a future and a hatred for a person who put other people in danger. "People like that are a drain on the habitat that potentially hazards the community," I finished.

"Oh," she said.

I considered the 'mech for a bit longer. "All right, Director-General. I'll do it, and I'll use it. Mind you I think I have the wrong mission for it, especially if you're putting Colonel Hazen in charge no matter what I may end up doing. But I'll give it my best shot."

Ian Stefan Victor Cameron settled back a little in his life-support chair as his sister and Roland talked. The neural-feeds built into it were like those found in a mech, but without the need for EMP hardening and the robustness of combat equipment, were much more responsive.

"What do you think?" he asked. With the vocoder turned off the dry rasp of his voice was nearly silent.

"You know him better than I do, sir."

"You were his commanding officer."

"Two steps in the chain of command, sir, not one. He was the lance-sergeant in my second lance. I only knew him for about six weeks before the coup. You've known him for more than a decade."

Victor contemplated this. "Do you think he should remain with the Task Force?"

"Frankly, if you're going to insist that I go play with the Falcons, I'd prefer that he'd stay as your head of security."

"All of the Black Watch is famously loyal, and while there are few survivors, we do have several others. Do you think the guard is inadequate?"

"If I did I wouldn't have agreed to this," Colonel Hazen informed him instantly. "But as far as loyalty goes, you do know that Roland Talbot has one of the highest loyalty indexes in the Black Watch?"

"Indeed? Even higher than yours?" Victor asked.

"Excuse me, I didn't mean the survivors, sir. I meant the Black Watch as a whole…or at least since we started recording them. Didn't you know?"

"No," Victor said. "Most of the Black Watch-specific parts of your files are redacted before my sister and I can view it. Major McIntyre explained it to us, briefly. And even those parts we can read tell us what, but not why."

"It goes back to that magistrate that, uh, _encouraged_ him to join the SLDF," said the voice was flat in the receiver implanted in his mastoid. "The SLDF gave him a purpose in life and self-respect, and that isn't a little thing, no matter who you are or where you came from.

"If you want my speculation, after he was selected for MechWarrior training he was sent to the Sun Zhang MechWarrior Academy on New Samarkand. The SLDF certified a few military academies among the great houses, General Kerensky—"

"Attended the Nagelring, I remember."

"Yes, but the SZMA wasn't one of them I'm guessing it was a kind of throwaway gesture of good will, probably with an exchange commission component as well. The SZMA was notorious for drilling loyalty to the Coordinator into its graduates, but Roland was apparently able to twist that into loyalty to the First Lord, and the Cavalry mutated that into loyalty to the Director-General."

"Oh," Victor said.

"_And_ he was the Honor Graduate of Sun Zhang."

"I remember reading that, but I still don't understand it, what with the loyalty requirement."

"The Dracs are a funny bunch. I doubt more than a handful of them know all of the intricacies of their honor-code for all stations in life. But for a warrior to show that kind of loyalty to his lord, even if it isn't _their_ lord, it makes a certain amount of sense."

"Ahh," Victor rasped in understanding.

Xxx

_Central Bay, SLDS _Lord George Murray

_Zenith Jump-Point_

_Planting System_

I shifted in my command couch. It was supposed to be identical to _Bun Bun_'s, but it wasn't. It just…wasn't. Having delayed long enough I reached out and hit the Master Power control. Beneath it a ten-pad key lit. I gave it an eye-roll and hit the accept button.

"Greetings, MechWarrior," intoned the startup program that had so far resisted my best efforts to change and I made a mental note to sic Merlin at it. "You have been recruited by the Star League to defend the Inner Sphere against Amaris and the Rim Worlds Republic.

"Enter your command code."

"By the brand on my withers the finest of tunes/ is played by the Lancers, Hussars and Dragoons," I replied. Unfortunately the computer flat-out required a phrase of a certain length or I'd have told it 'just get on with it.'

A twirl of bagpipes playing Bonnie Dundee acknowledged the correct response.

"All systems appear nominal for fusion core start, Paladin," a smooth, low, baritone said.

That was going to take some getting used to. It had taken more than a decade for _Bun Bun_ to do anything without prompting. Getting it to make simple observations on its own was easy enough, that was part of the voice-interface that most mech-jocks disabled as a matter of course. Its ability to analyze intel and how a battle was moving was an outgrowth of the original design-purpose of the voice-interface. Getting it to actually _do_ anything without me telling it to had been a real pain in the ass.

_Durandal,_ as Amanda had renamed my new mech, had started running the basic systems check on its own after the second time I had logged in. So far I'd only had three practice sessions with its myomers and actuators locked down while I used the ARES system as a simulator. Well, three practice sessions and the short hop when I moved it from the _Abyss_ to my new command dropship. Altogether this was my fifth startup.

I'd called in after the second session and a response had taken days to get back to me, but it had been confirmed. I was piloting a true AI. There were all sorts of limitations programmed into it, but I wasn't too sure how well they would hold. After all, one of the key components of a true intelligence was the ability to adapt, to grow. Was it conceivable for _Durandal_ to grow beyond its programming? For that matter, what were the purely physical limitations on its growth? The _Casper_ AIs had scores of tons devoted to just the computers that served as their 'brains'. _Durandal_, needless to say, didn't have anywhere near that kind of room.

I made a mental note to find it a name. _Durandal_ had been meant as a name for the 'mech, not the AI driving it. Maybe Bob?

At least I had had it repainted. The polished-armor look was pretty enough for parade, but for field use it just screamed 'target'. So it now sported Black Watch Tartan around one shoulder paldron and the opposite upper half of the opposite thigh, plus a camouflage pattern dark enough that the tartan didn't stand out on the rest of the mech. I'd had the defaced Star League star put on one chest panel, and the Hegemony disk on the other with field-subdued crossed six-shooters of a Gunslinger—honor graduate-black instead of the normal brown—under that. I had avoided them on _Bun Bun_ whenever I could get away with it as they made for a far too convenient an aiming point that was right over my old mech's autocannon magazine. _Durandal_, I figured, had enough armor to make it less of a worry.

When it came time for the leg-art, however, I'd been stumped. I'd been introduced to the ancient e-comic back when I'd still be a poor young grunt. Later I'd used it as inspiration for a solo run in the Advanced Combat and Maneuver School, where I had taken a mech with enough jump jets to do a fair impression of an aerospace fighter and proceeded to 'hop around and blow stuff up'. It just…wouldn't have been right to put the switchblade-wielding minilop up on _Durandal_

For now the right leg had been left blank save for the base camouflage coat. I'd have to change that and soon, just like I'd have to decide what camo-scheme we were going to use or if we were going to repaint for every landing.

"Is there something that you'd like to be called?" I asked.

Long pause. _Bun Bun_ wouldn't have understood the question at all, or would have responded with something like 'I am _Bun Bun_.'

"I am…unsure of the question. I am designated 'Durandal'."

Personal pronouns? Oh, I had heard DIs use them before, but that was a technical execution of speech and this was…a technical execution of speech, but there was something else in the way it said it.

"Amanda designated the 'mech _Durandal_ when I pointed out that there was already an _Excalibur_," I said, then went a little further. "I was wondering if _you_ had something you'd preferred to be called. A name."

Another long pause.

"I shall…contemplate this," it said, then. "All systems appear nominal for fusion core start."

As subject changers go it was about as subtle as a hammer to the teeth, but I went with it and the go-ahead the fusion plant startup.

The rest of the fleet was going to jump into the out-system away from any prying eyes and use their fusion plants to recharge. Meanwhile, the Quarterhorse and the two _Roger Young_-class assault transports currently attached to it—SLS _Ernst Jünger_ and SLS _Philip Gardner_—were going to jump into the L1 point of Ridderkirk's solitary natural satellite.

The _Rogs_ were yet another vessel built on the proven _Quixote_-class hull-frame, though, like many vessels, they had been built entirely new after the supply of available hulls had run out. My squadron was split evenly between them, with their other three hardpoints occupied by a pair of assault dropships and a fighter-carrier.

Currently we were riding in rebuilt _Buccaneer_ dropships. The original _Buccaneers_ had been passed over for an SLDF contract because of the _Union_-class dropper hitting the market. I've never cared for spherical dropships. If something goes wrong with the engine when you're on descent, that's it for those riding along. There likely won't be enough time to jump for it, whereas an aerodyne at least has the chance to glide.

But these weren't originals.

Star Masters Inc., a firm that specialized in beyond-cutting edge aerospace hardware (and incidentally had a not particularly small team 'field testing' prototypes with us), had bought a dozen of them and under their in-house Project STERN REBEL, rebuilt them. The STERN REBEL variant had traded in the spacious crew quarters and cargo bays for an interior that was so cramped that the crews and mech-jocks were bunked on the transports, much like the troops nominally assigned to _Vampire_ infantry-landing ships. The original _Buccaneer_ had been intended to lift one of the SLDF's light or medium-mech battalions or a reinforced assault-mech company, the ones we rode in had room for barely half of that. But despite of the cramped conditions, each was capable of dropping a company in a single drop. The internal structure had been stiffened, armor added, and its weapon bays would be a very unpleasant surprise for any fighter that poked its nose around.

In all likelihood I wasn't going to be able to keep them all. I'd probably end up having to consolidate the command lances and the special service troops onto a single vessel, probably an _Overlord_. Or maybe split up the SSTs into element-size units and pair a set of elements and a command lance with _Big Horn_ and _Comanche_ troops, and leave _Apache_ free…

"Five minutes to Jump!"

The warning wasn't piped through into the cockpit, but I heard it just fine regardless.

"All right then," I said. My squadron was in no condition to be pulling ready alert, which is why it wasn't the only ones jumping into the L1 point. While the rest of the ships charged at the nadir jump point, we would have a chance to pull a practice drop, and then conduct several days of maneuvers. The Seventh was coming along as an OpForce. This being Lyran territory (FedCom, whatever), General Steiner was riding along in the command center of _Lord George Murray_, my command dropship.

_Discontinuity_

I felt more than heard the _clang_ as _Gardner_ released. _Murray_ spun on its gyros and thrusters and then I felt heavy as the transit drive kicked in and we sent out for Ridderkirk.

"Let's see the task force," I said.

ARES flicked on and I swam in holographic space. At the center were a half-dozen airfoil-shaped dropships flying 'up', the oddly-appearing effect of aerodynes under transit drive. At the edges, and slightly behind the _Bucs_ were a pair of escort droppers. Ahead of us were a quartet of odd-shaped vessels that weren't quite spheroids, but weren't exactly aerodynes either.

I reached out for one, and instantly 'swam' through holographic space as the image zoomed in on the odd vessels.

"GunStars," _Durandal_ said.

Another Star Master product, they were experimental vessels intended for system defense. They were small for dropships, and while technically capable of operating in an atmosphere, were largely restricted to space operations. Despite massing the better part of 800 tons, each had a crew of only two, and bristled with weapons. Unusually, they hadn't been intended to ever attach to a jumper, but instead act as a sort of manned system-defense super-heavy fighter.

They were larger and more heavily armed and armored than any conventional fighter or assault shuttle, designed to hang out at jump-points or on airless bases in asteroid fields or moons. There were dropships, little more than open frameworks really, that they could dock with and had originally been intended for shipping the vessels from their factory yards to other systems. They had been modified after the coup into long-term support structures.

They were a niche weapon and, like many of the weapons in Task Force TH-X1138, didn't conform to standardized specs. Fast as most modern fighters, as well armored as many assault dropships, and heavily armed. They were highly effective. There also weren't enough of them. Star Masters had never been able to produce more than a really long test-run and most of them had been destroyed. I doubted there were a score of them left.

"General Winters assigned you nearly thirty percent of the remaining Gunstars."

"They're temporary, more likely than not. I just didn't have the experience of coordinating with the navy-side to make my own units requests. General Carson forwarded a request to Admiral Murakama for a list of recommendations."

I was silent for a moment, then swept the holo back out to encompass the little assault force heading for the planet.

"Okay, _Durandal_, why don't you bring up a game of _Go_ for while we wait."

Xxx

_Central Bay, SLDS _Lord George Murray

_En-route to Ridderkirk_

"Colonel."

I started, still unfamiliar with the recent promotion. In fact, it wouldn't be official until I got back from Luthien. General Steiner's head appeared in a section of flat-holo instead of cutting the holo-field so I could use the standard com-panel. "General Steiner," I replied.

"I've gotten in contact with Ridderkirk space traffic control," he said grimly.

"Oh?" I asked.

"The 1st Lyran Regulars Regimental Combat Team is supposed to be garrisoning this world," he said.

"I take it they aren't anymore?" I asked.

"No, they are, barely," he grimaced. "Their commander was in a traffic accident yesterday and is a coma. The situation on the ground is…confused, and they have DropShips inbound. I'm afraid it's Clan Wolf."

"Nadir jump point?" I asked. By whatever or whoever controls the strands of fate and deals out luck, TH-X1138 had gone to the zenith jump point. If the woofies had been there we would have received word by now. Equally obviously they hadn't been hanging around the planetary L1 point.

"We don't know, but that's the assumption," he grimaced.

"All right, how far away are they from landing?"

"One hour, maybe two," he said. "That's an estimate. As I said, the situation ground-side is very confused."

"Understood," I said tightly. System geometry had put our emergence at the L1 point between Ridderkirk and its solitary companion almost exactly four and a half hours from a zero-zero intercept. The 7th was over three hours behind me assuming they began boosting immediately. Originally it had been planned that I'd have a full day of running my squadron around on the ground. Now it meant that I'd have to be very careful until the 7th arrived, and aside from my arty none of my sub-units, except maybe Merlin's lance, were experienced working together, much less with the rest of the squadron. The escorts would keep me alive to the atmosphere interface, but they weren't meant for atmospheric combat.

"Does the First Lyran have droppers available, General?" I asked.

"Yes, their assigned DropShips are still on planet," Steiner said.

"Can you take charge of that RCT?" I asked.

He grimaced. "Legally and technically, no, we're outside of my command area. As the situation exists…" he shrugged. "As I said, the situation on the ground is very confused, Colonel. They've known about the invasion force for nearly twelve hours and I only just learned about it."

"Understood," I said. "_Durandal_, Trudy."

Captain 'Trudy' Buckler was a tall woman with pale blond hair. Lean and pale from too much time in micro-g without enough time spent in the g-rings and under Vitamin-D lamps. If she had a first name other than her handle I'd never heard of it, but I knew _her_. Once upon a time a much younger Trudy Buckler had requested that a magistrate exile a young snot who had boosted a heavily customized runabout, and a not much older Trudy Buckler had piloted the shuttle that had taken the same snot to the boot camp another magistrate had 'strongly recommended' he attend.

In one of the weird coincidences that the universe seems to run on in the same way that the SLDF navy-branch runs on coffee, we'd bumped into each other every other year or so until the coup. By that time she had been captain of the _Abyss_, and I privately wondered how she felt trading that post for her current one because, unlike every other crew and the fighter escort, I had made a point of requesting her. Not that I really cared how she felt. Amanda had a whole fleet to guard her. The loss of the best pilot we had wouldn't hurt her all that much.

There was a pause, then a second figure joined General Steiner.

"Captain," I said.

"Major," she said coolly. "General Steiner told me. Combat drop?"

"Yes, and you're going to need to push your birds."

"I thought you were going to say something like that," she murmured. "How high do you want to go?"

"All the way," I said shortly. "Atmo-braking if you need to."

"Understood," she said. She glanced off to one side and laid the whole thing in by eye. "Squadron Orders. All personnel, secure for main-drive. Come to zero-zero-zero, One-eight-zero, secure transit drive, main drive to two-point-five gravities as soon as the squadron reports ready."

She turned back to me. "Turn-over will be in nine-point-six minutes, Major, but you aren't going to gain more than eight-point-eight-six minutes, less since we'll need to secure for using the main-drive first."

"Understood," I said. "Do it anyway."

She nodded tightly and signed off.

"_Durandal,_ stand by to record a message."

"Standing by."

"First message, to General Winters, attention Admiral Murakama and General Carson. Message begins. 'General Winters, General Steiner has made contact with Ridderkirk Astro-Control. Astro reports invasion force from Clan Wolf now approximately one hour from landing. Garrisoning force, First Lyran Regulars Regimental Combat team, cannot be considered mission capable at this time. Reports indicate that their CO was in a traffic accident and is in a coma, and ground-side situation is very confused.

"Unless otherwise directed, I intend to land my squadron and conduct operations in Clan Wolf rear areas to relieve the First Lyran. General Steiner will attempt to exert local control over indigenous forces. At this time it is believed that restoration of the First Lyran to combat capable status is not, repeat _not_, possible. General Steiner will therefore attempt to evacuate local forces. Signed, Roland Talbot, Commanding Officer, 1st of the 4th Cavalry, Message ends.

"Second message. To, Colonel Hal Franks, Commanding Officer, 7th Cavalry Regiment. Message begins, 'Colonel. I have received word that Clan Wolf forces are estimated to be less than an hour from planet-fall on Ridderkirk. The situation on the ground is extremely confused, owing, in part, to the commanding officer of the First Lyran Regulars Regimental Combat Team having been in an vehicular accident and now in a coma.

"General Steiner believes it possible to evacuate the majority of the First Lyran off-planet, but thinks the likelihood of being able to restore them to combat effectiveness is negligible. I am going to push my transit to get him on the ground and buy time for the evacuation. I request reinforcement as soon as practicable. Signed, Quarterhorse, Roland Talbot Commanding. Message ends."

"Both messages have been recorded."

"Send both to _Philip Gardner_ and request a hyper-com relay for the first message, and relay to the CO of the 7th. Then initiate a Command Group conference. I want the company COs, COs of the support lances, the XO and Sergeant Major, the captains of the transports and the escort droppers, the CO of the Gunstars, and General Steiner."

xxx

_As before_

I looked away from the assembled holographic faces of my officers as a window split. A tiny light code indicated a laser-com from the _Philips_ forwarding a hyper-com transmission. General Carson's grim face stared at me for a moment before beginning to speak. "Major Talbot, your Op-plan, such as it is, is approved. Unfortunately, given the situation on the ground, we can only conclude that moving further forces forward, plus necessary escorts will only cause further confusion among the local defenders.

"You are authorized to conduct limited mobile operations to draw forces off of the Lyrans while General Steiner attempts to evacuate them. You are not authorized, repeat _not_ authorized to become decisively engaged."

I waited while the message fizzled out before turning back to the command group conference.

"And now it is official," I said. "We're go. So this is how we're going to do things. Kim," I turned to the commander of the outsized artillery lance, "We're going to leave your third section on the droppers."

She nodded unhappily. "I don't like it, but without more than a token allotment of rockets…" she shrugged. "Can I snag some additional rounds from the dropships' racks?" The dropships and her mechs both mounted _Thumper_ artillery pieces, though the droppers' could only be used when landed and the landing struts locked down.

"I have ten rounds per tube," Trudy said with a grimace. "I had a rather pointed conversation scheduled with a certain supply officer, but that doesn't change the situation. I can cut you the rounds, but I'd just as soon keep them. If you need us to cover you—"

"We're going to need it heavy," I finished. "How are you set without, Kim?"

"About eighteen rounds a tube," she shrugged. "That's a little more than a quarter of our standard load-out."

"We'll just have to live with it. Annie," I turned to my Air-Defense Officer.

"You don't have to tell me," she said. "We're storing the _IIb_s."

Annie's last _Rifleman_ had been a complete write-off, and she was transitioning to one of the Royal-series _Rifleman II_ rebuilds. The _II-Alphas_ were armed along a similar line as the standard _Rifleman_ with MetalStorm-5 autocannons and a laser battery that was scheduled to be upgraded with lasers captured from the woofie stockpiles. We couldn't use their ordinary weapons due to some kind of modular harness they were built into, but the stocks intended for secondary troops seemed normal enough.

The _Rifleman II_-_Bravo_ was less maneuverable and more lightly armored than the _II-Alpha_, but it traded in for the MetalStorm-5s for a pair of MetalStorm-10s. Its ammunition supply was nowhere near the _II-Alphas_, but it was hoped that it wouldn't be needed. Instead of the customary laser secondary-armament, the _II-Bravo_ had a pair of Sparrowhawk air-intercept missile quad-packs.

The same supply issue that had side-lined Kim's missile-artillery section plagued my entire Squadron. We had enough ammunition for planned range-time, not a battle. Most of our missiles were training rounds with marker warheads. Ballistic ammunition was cheap so aside from the _Riflemen_ we were good there, but when the _Riflemen IIb_ had been assigned at the last minute they had come with stocks of MetalStorm-5 ammunition. Annie was actually running a surplus and had cross-loaded the _II-Alpha_s with three tons of standard 'ball' rounds, but the _IIb_s couldn't use MS-5 ammo and they had only a limited number of missiles.

"Next item, missile allotment," I said. "George, Sergeant Major, I was thinking we could leave our _Longbows_ at home and release their stocks to the companies." I paused and raised an eyebrow. George frowned and the Sergeant Major gave me an old-fashioned look that had more to do with me leaving behind part of a unit tasked with keeping me alive than it did with having to give up some of his combat power. But he nodded at last.

"Actually swapping out the missiles will have to wait until we land—" since all of the line troops were on separate dropships "—but they can be palleted and if we do a drop they can be dropped as well and we can load them on the ground. Next I thought we'd take a look at…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Center Mech Bay, SLDS _Lord George Murray  
_Ridderkirk System

"…Star Colonel Athen Kederk of the 328th Assault Cluster, Alpha Galaxy, Clan Wolf. What is your name and with what forces are you going to bolster this world's meager defenses?"

I keyed my comm. alive. "Star Colonel Athen Kederk, I am Lieutenant-Colonel Roland Talbot, Commanding Officer 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment, Star League Defense Force Royal Command, Detachment Four-Two—"

Det. Four-Two (the name came from the Black Watch's earliest regimental number) was the Royal Command's official designation for the Black Watch and its subsidiary units. As far as the SLDF was concerned everyone assigned to Det. Four-Two was on detached duty. As far as the THAF, and the Royal Black Watch in particular, were concerned everyone assigned Det. Four-Two was a member of the THAF. By the strictest letter of the regs assigned personnel were technically member of two completely separate militaries, although theoretically subject to recall by the SLDF. On a practical level, however, once you were in 'Detachment Four-Two' you were in for life.

I had used it because not only did it sound splendedly official, but it was also the least known name for the Black Watch. Only the most official of documents and regulation-bound officers used it. After two and a half centuries, with the technical decline observed, I figured the odds were better than even that no one would link 'Detachment Four-Two' and 'Royal Black Watch Regiment'.

"—Star Colonel, you and your cluster are in violation of Federated Commonwealth territorial limits. Under Article Seven Section Two of the Articles of the Star League, the mutual defense protocol, I am declaring this system under the protection of the Star League Defense Force. As senior officer in orbit I am requesting and _requiring_ you and your forces to repair aboard their DropShips and quit this system immediately. Failure to comply with this and any further directives you are issued will have the gravest of consequences."

I thumbed the manual 'transmit' key and held it down a little longer to squelch out his broadcast, but then released it.

"—_ag_ freebirth _surat!_"

"Message not understood, Star Colonel, are you having technical difficulties with your communications systems?" I asked. "My technicians would be happy to assist you with any repairs that you may require in order to be on your way."

"_Jesus_, Roland," George laughed over the command circuit.

"Pretenders and Imposters who seek to ape the glory of the Star League Defense Force, hear me!"

"Can you believe this guy?" a female voice asked. A glance at the section of my holographic display that was concerned with such things indicated it wasn't from one of the troopers outside of my lance, and the only woman in my command lance was—

Only it wasn't. _Durandal_ had been flipping through avatars, still not happy with the one it had initialized with. The current model was a tall, voluptuous, and extremely muscled redhead waving a sword as big as she was and wearing a mail bikini that would not have been comfortable if it had been made of anything other than photons.

"Centuries ago the Great Star League Defense Force chose to follow the Great Father, General Aleksandr Kerensky, Protector of the Star League, into exile, rather then let you cowardly _surats_ defile, corrupt, and destroy it like you have done so many of the Star League's glories. We, the Clans, Children of the Great Father and Heirs to the Star League—"

I cut him off. "Kerensky was a mutineer, his officers guilty barratry of the highest order, and everyone who left with him was a deserter." _Durandal_'s signal processors indicated he was trying to communicate, but I was broadcasting through all of my mechs, the dropships, and General Steiner had linked me into the planetary comm.-net.

"Talbot," I heard General Steiner ask, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"He's buying you time, General Steiner," _Durandal _replied. _Bun Bun_ would sort out communications for me, but it had _never_ replied without my prompting it. This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

"If the Star League was fated to die," I continued, setting aside the subject of my mech's growing independence for the moment, "better it was done without the false protection of those who would so carelessly discard honor, faith and their solemn oaths for the chance to follow a deluded old man. If the children of mutineers and deserters seek to reclaim the honor that their forebears tossed aside, I wish them luck with their quest. But if, as I suspect, that they willingly turn their weapons on those who cannot defend themselves and slaughter civilians out of hand, they will have proven that they are, indeed, their parents' children."

I finished the transmission. Stark silence awaited me.

"Did I lay it on too thick?" I asked.

"It sounded good, Boss," Kim said.

"A professionally done taunt, sir," Eugene said loftily.

"Atmospheric interface in ten seconds," Trudy barked.

Then things became very bumpy for a while.

* * *

Pilot Wixster, Bravo-Fighter-Two, tightened his abs and thighs as he grunted noisily. When he had first seen an image of a pilot fighting g-forces during a presentation in his sibko he had thought it funny. But what looked funny to a person who failed to grasp what he was seeing was actually a fairly effective method of pumping blood that would otherwise pool in the lower extremities of the body.

His fighter left the hard bank and above and ahead of him were the six bright arrows of aerodyne DropShips breaking into the atmosphere. The Star Colonel had, for once, failed to grant them SafeCon—not surprising considering the spheroid's remarks—and he was fully intending to claim the first victory. How many BattleMechs could a vessel that size hold? It would depend on the size of the BattleMech, of course, but at least one of the light trinaries the spheroids used? Two?

"System check," he said. His wingman and the pair in Point Three had better be in the green, but faults could happen at any time. Unlike a MechWarrior or an Elemental one does not just _stop_ a fighter and wait for a technician to come out and do the job he should have done in the first place.

"Bravo."

"Three."

"Three-Bravo."

Wixstar advanced his throttle and brought the nose up slightly.

* * *

Trudy frowned as a red light began to flash on her display. Momentarily taking a hand from the thruster control she swiped it through the holographic interface. A screen appeared in the cockpit at eye-level and offset to the left.

"Enemy aerospace fighters at our six o'clock low."

"I can see this," Trudy said. They had laid a series of very lightweight remotes in the atmosphere behind them. They weren't good for much, but they weren't blinded by the plasma wave that was currently curling around the droppers' ventral surface as they burned across the sky. They were good enough, however, to detect the four aerospace fighters closing in on them, though not enough to give type or even mass estimates.

She glanced at the schematic of the cargo bays. They were currently haloed with green, signifying that everything in the bay was fully secured and spaced in such a way that the center of mass was optimized for in-atmosphere maneuvering. Trudy just hope that everything was as secure as the display said. Having a hundred ton mach rattling around inside a cargo bay would be…bad.

"Forward gunners, prepare for shot in…ten seconds. All hands, prepare for Kilo-Three."

3…2…1…

"_Now!_" she cried, easing back on the stick and feeding a little more drive plasma into the thrusters.

* * *

As Wixster watched, the DropShip in the rear-center of the formation tilted up and kicked in its thrusters even as the others tightened their descent profile.

"Point Three, go after the one heading back to orbit." He did not much care for splitting his forces, but he was _not_ going to let any escape from him.

* * *

_Sucker_, Trudy thought as she kicked the left rudder hard. At this altitude it controlled maneuvering jets more than it did the rudder. Fortunately _Murray_'s avionics were bright enough to figure out the optimum combination of jet and rudder. She killed momentum with another hard stomp just as she started to swing onto a reciprocal of her original heading. The altimeter and airspeed began to drop alarmingly as the main engines began to shed the impressive amount of momentum she had carried into the atmosphere.

The enemy opened fire, but her gunners had been waiting and got their shots off first. Each wing, carried a MetalStorm-10 rotary autocannon, paired LRM-10/20 launchers, and an over/under mounted extended-range large laser and particle cannon, while the nose carried another pair of MetalStorm-10s.

The stick bucked in Trudy's hand. Her maneuver had air flowing from the normally trailing-edge forward and modified and upgraded as the dropship was over the original model, it was a flight profile it had never been intended to use. Heat from the weapons fire spiked temperatures that were already high due to the less effective heat exchangers in the areas now subject to the most atmospheric friction. She was heading for a stall at the rate she was shedding airspeed, and internal engine pressure was starting to edge towards the red zone from their passage blowing air back into the thrusters' plenum chambers.

But she held it. She held it as the lasers and PPCs from the energy-weapon-heavy clan fighters struck back. Blue-white lightning-bolt and ruby-red aftereffects of PPC and laser fire, sparkled in the backs of her eyes, and armor plating shattered in man-sized splinters. She held it as she watched missiles coming at her and point-defense mounts left streaks of light dancing across her vision. The starboard wing dipped as armor was shed unevenly and she compensated on the fly. A second wave of missiles rose towards her…

Then the two enemy fighters were falling pieces of shredded tinsel.

And just like that the scope was…clear.

Immediately she dipped the nose and fed in left rudder to bring them back around, then throttled up slightly. "Report!"

"Two enemy fighters destroyed."

"Damage?"

"…approximately ten tons of armor sheathing lost—"

"Damage unbalanced to the right," Trudy noted. "Compensating. Systems?"

"Nominal."

Trudy nodded as she reentered the glide-slope that would take her after the others, mentally noting that the blue fighter group was directly under her.

"Gladys take the stick, I need to talk to our passengers."

She waited until she felt the light shake her copilot gave the stick before lifting her hand away before keying the channel to the mech bays.

"Attention passengers, this is the Captain speaking. We are encountering some slight turbulence caused by energy weapon fire in our vicinity ionizing the air. You will also no doubt experience some jostling from the enemy fire that is striking us. This is nothing to be worried about and should be considered normal. I ask that all passengers return to their seats and strap themselves in. Seats should be upright and tray tables in their stowed and locked positions as there may be further wild maneuvering. I thank you all for flying Cav-Air, and wish you a pleasant day."

* * *

Communication Center, CWS _Dire Wolf_,  
Clan Wolf Occupation Zone  
Rasalhague System

Ulric Kerensky stared at the mechs fighting around his knees, a battle reduced in size to something that could be watched without the need of sensors or by staring at a flat tactical map. It was not the first time he had watched this battle, or even the second. He had spent long hours in the holo-tank replaying aspects of it over and over again. He had chosen to have it waged again now to make a point.

He looked up as a _Marauder_ finished tearing apart a Clan Wolf _Gargoyle_. SaKhan Garth Radick could not have looked more unlike a Clan Warrior. He was short, stout, with the kind of bland face that reminded Ulric of the scientist who had explained to his sibko how OmniMech sensors really worked. "Your analysis?" he asked.

Radick ran a hand through his hair. "I screwed up," he said bluntly.

Ulric nodded. His fellow Khan was a staunch crusader and given to forming needlessly complex battle-plans, two things that Ulric had a hard time forgiving. However, he was honest to a fault and was able to recognize his mistakes, if only after the fact, the latter something depressingly rare in the Clans.

_Was it something genetic that we bred out of ourselves, or is it a product of our training and the sibkos and the culture that created both? _He wondered. _Or is it even deeper than that? Something that makes us…human?_ After a moment he gave a mental shrug, _likely part of all three_. _Natural, I suppose, when a mistake on one's part can be passed away as superior skill on an opponent's._

"Those tracked vehicles they fielded are far more mobile than they have any right to be for the amount of armor and weapons they carry," his fellow Khan went on. "We were unable to keep any of the battlefield salvage, but we did get a chance to look them over. They have a new kind of engine, even lighter than ours, and it looks like it uses _no_ rad-shielding at all."

"I find that…hard to believe," Ulric said. Hydrogen fusing was a cheap, practical, and in contrast to other methods of energy production, extremely efficient. Unfortunately it also produced a large number of free neutrons. Radiation shielding had to be built into the engine lest it damage sensitive electronics and the persons who operated such plants or anything said plants were attached to. Apparently the Inner Sphere had a real problem with the last one, and neutron fatigue limited fusion power to mostly the exo-atmospheric and military sectors. Monitoring the induced radioactivity of the rad-shielding components, and, if necessary, replacing them, was part of the maintenance cycle any fusion reactor required.

Much of those components were actually _inside_ the fusion chamber. In this way they could intercept the radiation before it struck the reactor housing itself as the magnetic fields used to contain and shape the actual fusion field would not stop a neutron the way they could charged particles. Without a need for those components, and the systems that kept them from melting in the extreme temperatures of a live fusion core, the effects on the warriors assigned to a vehicle or 'mech with such a reactor would be…unpleasant.

"Believe it," Garth said flatly.

"Unless they have gone to some form of aneutronic fusion…"

"That is exactly what they use."

The problems with such reactions were immense, Ulric knew. Deuterium side-reactions made several fuel choices useless, several more that used lithium-six suffered from an inherently low cross-section and not particularly high thermal plasma, there were no convenient sources of helium-three, and the proton/boron-eleven cycle just could not overcome the power density advantages of conventional fusion.

"We had no scientists in the field to look it over, but we took a look at their fuel source," the saKhan paused. No doubt, Ulric thought, to put added emphasis on whatever he was about to reveal. "Helium-three."

Ulric nodded slowly. "All of them?" The advantages of Helium-Three fusion had been identified even before the first working fusion reactor had been built. Not only was it aneutronic and lacked the problem of side-fusing deuterium, it also made for much more efficient energy harvesting. It also required a higher working temperature and a much more fickle confinement field, the latter not something desirable in military hardware. Most problematic was that terra-type planets usually only had trace amounts of the gas. Water, which many planets had in abundance if not always something a person would care to drink, could always be broken down into its component hydrogen and oxygen atoms for fuel.

"All of those that still had intact fuel pods," Garth replied. "Gas giant farming."

Ulric nodded again. There were some types of regolith that had it in moderate quantity, but the only large source was the atmosphere of gas giants. It was the most likely explanation of how they were able to acquire that amount of fuel. Several of the Clans had experimented with gas giant mining, but all had set it aside. The expenses were just too great and the estimated return was too small. After all, hydrogen fusion had worked just fine for centuries and new breakthroughs in shielding materials had promised ever smaller and lighter reactors without the hazards and economic costs of trying to mine the atmosphere of a gas giant.

"The tanks had a very unusual gun system," Garth went on. "I sent you the specs, as far as we could ascertain in the field. Somehow they have combined a PPC with a launcher for a lightweight artillery missile, and still have it capable of firing cannon rounds in the mk-20 range. It is a huge installation, fifteen-twenty tons, say a third of the total mass of the tank. It cannot fire very quickly and it seems that switching between firing modes takes ten or fifteen seconds, perhaps a little longer." He looked down at the battlefield.

"A flexible system nonetheless," Ulric noted. "Do you think it is adaptable?" Even if it could not be made to work for mechs a fully-developed weapon that was purpose-made for conventional armor could still be used in the few second-line forces that used tanks. Barring that, it could be sold to Clan Hell's Horses or Blood Spirit, both of which used armor in their front-line units.

"Perhaps, but I am not sure that it is worth the bother. Besides the limited flexibility the only particularly interesting thing about the weapon is the missile. A kind for which we have little need."

"Forward your notes and observations to the Scientists," Ulric decided. "They are the experts in this kind of thing, quiaff? I am interested in hearing their opinions before we make any conclusions."

"Aff, Khan," Garth said.

"Now, what about their leadership?"

"They were competently led," the saKhan admitted grudgingly. "That flank wheeling while under fire _and_ in the middle of a rout was as nice a maneuver as anything I have ever seen out of the spheroids."

Ulric said nothing. He would not have characterized the retreat from the canal zone as a 'rout', but everything else was factual enough. "And the secondary drop?"

"We still do not know what destroyed the Third Battle Cluster's striker trinary save for the confused declarations of Star Commander Blada Neely that they encountered battle armor. Personally I am more inclined to believe Star Captain Ancil Radick's report of mine-launched torpedoes. With the amount of ECM they cluttered the battlefield with, plus all the debris from the drop, the radar and sonar returns could have easily been interpreted as battle armor. The torpedo-mines, those water-launched Arrow missiles, and the ECM-pods Star Captain Dale Carns reported, would account for the dropped material aside from the Mechs."

Ulric nodded slowly. One or the other, battle armor or vast quantities of mines and encapsulated artillery missiles, plus the ECM-pods was possible from the number of tracked objects in the drop. Both were not.

"They know us. They know how to provoke us," Garth said.

Ulric looked up at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You have seen the recording of the bidding?" Garth asked. "He played me. He opened his bid at nothing less than Strana Mechty itself! And from there he named things he _knew_ I could not provide.

"And it was reasonable too. The Honor Road demands we risk something of equal value. Oh, no Clan has ever demanded as much as another planet before, but to best of my memory no Clan has ever waged a Trial of Possession for an entire planet before either! How much value does an agri-world have to our supply situation?" he asked rhetorically. "I shall tell you, five stars of OmniMechs, a fighter binary, seven points of Elemental armor save one suit, and three DropShips worth."

A steep cost, Ulric acknowledged. Very steep. Possibly steep enough to affect the planning for Wave 5.

"I dismissed them," the junior Khan went on. "I treated them as an after thought. Half of them were medium and light BattleMechs. Two trinaries should have been more than sufficient. But Dale walked his trinary into what was obviously a trap. This…Major Roland Talbot kept his BattleMechs clear but let Dale walk right into a mine-field—"

"Or battle armor."

"—or battle armor," Garth said. "Of which there is no evidence, mind you. At least Ancil Radick broadcasted his battleroms of the torpedo-mines. And then they tricked someone in Ancil Radick's trinary, I am not certain who yet but I will find out soon, into abandoning _zellbrigen_. The provocation could not have been more perfectly planned and executed. And with those improvements to the engines they were as well armed, or better, than some OmniMechs!"

"How much do you think the new engines weigh?" Ulric said.

"As much as our lightweight models for a given energy production," Garth said. "Perhaps less? We never did see a battlemech version, most of their mech forces were in the secondary drop and they took the time to thoroughly destroy the ones we rendered _hors de combat_. They probably save quite a bit of volume as well, though again I cannot begin to estimate how much. The scientists can only guess at what a combat-ready Helium-three fusion plant would look like.

"I put a Warrior who was _abtaka_ from Clan Hell's Horses and was passing familiar with that Clan's armored vehicles, on it. He said that the big tanks can get approximately a hundred-thirty klicks per hour on good terrain—open fields and the like—perhaps a little better on roads, and that the engine takes up little less than a quarter of its total mass."

Garth Radick looked down and Ulric wondered what he saw at his feet. Was he in a field-capable holo-tank being transmitted to his flagship, or was he in a ship-borne holo-tank with something in the imager beneath him. Was it possible that he was watching the same thing that he himself was?

"I would have probably have hade them if I had only had four hours more," Garth said conversationally. "They were crumbling, Ulric. The opening running ambushes were excellent, and if those tanks had not retreated into the city and continued their running ambushes they could have rendered my entire galaxy non-combat-capable. But they did, and I was going to make them _pay_ for it. And then I dismissed their mech forces.

"No. The only ones who acted appropriately are Star Captain Sumner Johns, who is missing in action, and Star Captain Latharn Fetladral. His final defense of the StarPort was brilliant in design and execution. Normally I would argue that customizing the weapon load-out of a _Naga_—of _any_ artillery-mech—would be a waste, but in this case Latharn thought it out well and his execution was excellent. Ancil Radick and the aerospace force had inflicted enough damage that he could have likely finished them off short of the grounded DropShips. But he could not have stopped both them and the remaining artillery tracks. Not unless he threw away all of the DropShips."

"Has the weapon used been identified yet?"

"Neg," Garth said. "Latharn had little time to examine the burning warehouses before he was forced to go to orbit with the spheroid-DropShips. They secured our people inside the hangers until the runways were sufficiently rebuilt to launch the aerodynes. He did make a guess, some kind of artillery-deployed thermobaric weapon, but that would not account for the sharp temperature declines detected in each just before they exploded."

"And once they had isolated you on the planet you had little choice but to accept their offer," Ulric said.

"Aff," Garth said angrily.

Ulric nodded. Information from the Planting campaign was already being disseminated throughout Clan Wolf. The next time they encountered these people his warriors would be prepared. Garth's information about the fusion plants and the combination weapon system employed by their armor would be passed on to the scientists for analysis, speculation, and possible development. Which left the most important issue of all.

"Are you on schedule to hit your next target?"

"Yes," Garth said. "The supplies we lost, aside from the forfeit, were mostly meant for the garrison force. Their loss means little since we will not be putting in a garrison. The equipment we have to turn over will cost us dear, but we still have the stocks intended for Engadin. Ramon Sander should be able to hit that world in the third week of August. That should be plenty of time for the technicians to repair any battle damage. As soon as the 352nd has rejoined I can hit Kandis. That drop is scheduled for the beginning of September.

"I will need replacements transferred forward to make up for losses, of course. And the 3rd Battle Cluster has been gutted…again. It will take more time to rebuild and without it I have lost my strategic reserve."

Ulric hid a smile. A 'strategic reserve' was not the kind of thing Garth—or the vast majority of other Clan Warriors—would have worried about three years ago, except, perhaps, so far as such a term applied to forces defending critical Clan infrastructure from Dark Caste raids and Trials of Possession from other Clans. "I could have Anton shift the Dorbeng Garrison Cluster over to Beta Galaxy long enough for replacement warriors to come forth. It should not take more than a month or two to bring the 3rd Battle Cluster up to its full strength, although training, I admit, may take longer."

"A premier front-line cluster has been shattered and you want to replace them with Freebirths, old men, and decrepit equipment?"

"Dornberg Garrison has successfully conquered three planets," Ulric said mildly. "Their operations on New Oslo were as fine as any cluster in all of the Clans could have performed, quiaff?"

"Aff," Garth said sullenly.

"Besides," Ulric went on. "The Inner Sphere armies field heavy compliments of fighters. The garrison cluster's multiple fighter stars will make a useful addition, and their armor troops have trouble with our elementals."

"That is true," the saKhan said unwillingly. "The Founder Knows that they were more effective against this new kind of tank than my mechs were."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

Center Mech Bay, SLDS _Lord George Murray  
_Ridderkirk System

The red light over the open door snapped red. The bolts holding _Durandal_ in place fired and the drogue chute that had been automatically deployed twenty seconds earlier pulled a hundred tons of mech, and a bit more than eighty kilos of pilot, out of the spaceplane with Howie Arnett's _King Crab _right behind me. In a normal drop the rest of my lance would have launched at the same time, the first out of the first set of bay doors in _George Murray_'s Number-1 and -2 holds. Maria Chan's _Pillager_ did come out the first hold, but Curt Mortensen's _Longbow_ remained onboard.

Following the _Pillager_, came the lead mechs in one element each from _Raven_, _Regulator_, _Thunder_, and _Muleskinner_. Respectively cyber-warfare, artillery, air-defense, and engineers. Out of the Number-2 hold came the number two mechs of the element.

_Stetson_ and _Ramrod_—George's and the Sergeant Major's lances—landed with the rest of the special troops company even as _Apache, Big Horn_ and _Comanche_ troops made their drops. Without enough time to look over the traditional troop designations I had picked the Indian War campaign streamers from the mid-nineteenth century for the line troops, and traditional cavalry callsigns for the rest.

Ammo pallets dropped from the three dropships carrying my command element and the special troops company. Designated mechs—the ones with hands—began to rip them open. Armored hatches clanged open, and in short order the line companies had full missile racks.

The _Bucs_ were already leaving. They'd land at the Vesinur Space Complex south of the capital. The capital of Ridderkerk—unimaginatively called Ridderkerk city—was located in one of those broad, bowl-shaped valleys that travel brochures call scenic. I could just imagine a picture of one in one of those Marine recruiting posters. You know, the one that tells would-be recruits that they can 'go to exotic places,' and 'see exotic peoples' and, if asked, the recruiting sergeant will add on what the newly Marine is going to be expected to do.

As for the Cav, we did what we traditionally did when they came for us.

We took to the hills.

Their fighters headed for us.

Annie, directing a few flak rounds from _Regulator_ as well as the firepower of her _Rifleman_s, encouraged them to stay back until they were in mutual support of their mechs, not that I had any intention of waiting around that long. Our greater speed would allow us to harry and harass them, but most of my mechs had the same ammunition problems for their guns as they did for their missile launchers. Even if they had full loads I wasn't willing to let myself get caught up in a stand-up fight no matter what my orders were.

On Planting, observation had revealed that we had a slight but real advantage in our ballistic weapons. Preliminary analysis of captured woofie supplies confirmed this, but they had also confirmed that the woofies had better missile launchers and energy weapons. Our missiles were actually a bit better, with an improved seeker head and more powerful explosive filler in the warhead. Instead of improving the missiles, they had gotten around the minimum LRM range barrier by improving their launchers. They weren't as robust and didn't have the partial-fire ability ours did—or the multi-environment launchers of the Marines—but in addition to the better launcher/missile interface that allowed the improved targeting each launcher had only half the mass of ours which was no small thing.

More to the point, their energy weapons—aside from the LPDS and the lightweight PPCs which they didn't seem to have—their energy weapons were lighter, more compact, better ranged, and more powerful than ours. Caught in the open their longer-ranged lasers and harder-hitting particle cannons would rip us to shreds.

Therefore, my op-plan, such as I'd had time to put one together, was to run for the hills. Hopefully in there where ranges would shrink and ARES/AVIX would allow for precise non-line-of-sight missile barrages, we could negate most of their advantages while increasing our own. Or that was my hope anyway.

* * *

CW _Dire Wolf_,  
Clan Wolf Occupation Zone  
Rasalhague System

"What are you thinking, Bondsman?" Ulric asked as he idly stroked his goatee.

Phelan looked at the Khan of Clan Wolf and wondered, not for the first time, what the other man was thinking. No, not _what_ he was thinking, _how_ he was thinking. It always seemed like Khan could work a problem from three different angles, or more, at once. Each of those angles could, in turn, produce a different solution, and the man could slip between them as naturally as breathing. As a warrior it made him very dangerous, but as a politician—which a Khan was, in a sort of fashion, though they would _never_ call themselves such and behaved very differently than any politician from the Inner Sphere—it made him scary.

"I am thinking that whoever _these_ people are," he said, sweeping a hand at the holotank, "they had no more idea of what they faced than Khan Garth Radick did."

"An interesting idea," Ulric said. Despite his words, his posture was nonchalant, almost indifferent, as though whatever Phelan found of interest was barely worthy of notice.

"First point, I have never heard of any of the units mentioned by General Richard Winters in his opening exchange," Phelan said. "They are not mercenaries. There are very few mercenary units of multi-regimental strength, which they indicated they had even if they did not engage with their entire force. I suppose they could be a secret house unit, but they do not follow normal naming conventions."

"Unlikely," Ulric said. "There technology is too advanced."

"There is some stuff coming out of the New Avalon Institute of Science that would make even the Clans pause," Phelan said, "At least where the ground units are concerned. I've—I _have_—never heard of anything like their aircraft.

"There is little data about the other space vessels, but to the best of my knowledge there are no compact KF-drive cores left in the Inner Sphere. Even if one were to have been found and salvaged I doubt that any of the Great Houses would have left it in a _hospital_ ship, and yet Khan Garth Radick's own inspection teams said that is exactly what it was."

"Indeed," Ulric said. "You said both were surprised. Why? Our invasion has been underway for almost a full year."

"Exactly," Phelan said. "And yet, even if he failed to recognize Garth Radick in particular, General Winters should have recognized Clan Wolf and yet he did not. There might be someone living in a farming community in the back end of the Free Worlds' League that has not heard of the Clan Invasion, but I would not put anything I value on there being two. What particularly caught my attention was his threat against the JumpShips."

"Yes," Ulric said, his eyes narrowing. "He is willing to use nuclear weapons."

"That is likely the same thought Khan Radick had," Phelan stated. "I can…appreciate your repugnance where such weapons are concerned, but speaking as a native of the Inner Sphere what caught my attention was that he threatened to destroy _JumpShips_. The Inner Sphere does not have the capacity to build new drive cores. It has not had that capacity for centuries. If there is anyplace in the Inner Sphere that does now, production cannot be more than a handful a year. Most of the Inner Sphere regards destroying JumpShips the way the Clans regard using nukes."

Ulric sat back and stroked his chin again. That more or less coincided with his understanding. It still left open the question, however, of whom these people were and where they came from. "What do you think of the bidding?"

Phelan shrugged, "I think General Winters got lucky. He happened across the fact that the Trial system allows the defender to demand something of value if he succeeds in defeating the attacker, and started the bidding and high as he could think of. Planting is a breadbasket world with an abundant supply of water and a long growing season. Its astrographic positioning makes it something of a crossroads. Its capture would have increased Clan Wolf's stocks of food-stuffs, which would have aided the invasion. Further, it is conveniently close to the Jade Falcon occupation zone to make selling its products to that clan economically feasible, perhaps even desirable. It is, in any way you look at it, a valuable planet.

"Asking for something truly of equal value, at least to the extent of a planet, is extreme, or at least that is my understanding?" Ulric nodded and Phelan went on. "As I said, he started his bidding high. An opening position as it were. I doubt he was expecting to actually get that much."

"Why?" Ulric said.

"Because even a Successor Lord would not make that kind of bargain…or maybe they would," Phelan shrugged. "No, it was not offered with the idea that the saKhan would accept it. Actually, I suspect he may have meant it as a sarcastic comment and the saKhan taking it seriously caught him off-guard. When it became obvious that the saKhan was being serious and not joking back, he made the request for the asto-data. Information needed to strike at an invasion launch-off point is not the kind of thing any reasonable military commander, by Inner Sphere standards, is going to turn over. And yet, it is of a value to a military commander facing an invasion. As much value as a planet is worth?" He paused for a moment, "All the while he portrayed himself as being 'reasonable', to encourage the saKhan to make a reasonable, and generous, counter-proposal, or at least to accept something that he could provide."

"One in five of all military hardware short of DropShips, not including battlefield salvage and captured stocks is 'reasonable'?" Ulric said.

"How much is a planet worth, Khan?" Phelan asked.

Ulric nodded. "Garth Radick allowed himself to be out-bid. Albeit, there was the unspoken threat that the rest of Admiral Murakama's WarShips and additional ground forces could have been brought to bear if he did not accept the bid. The first such vessels we have ever seen in the Inner Sphere. There is no way to tell in what order they are in, though the reports of the hospital ship was that it was in excellent condition. What of the ground phase?"

Phelan considered the holotank. Not long before he had stood in it as Clan Wolf and Inner Sphere forces had swarmed around each other like little toy army men. "Both sides were…less than stellar. "

Ulric raised an eyebrow. "Defend it."

"I only have battle-roms to base my conclusion on, not solid after-actions reports," Phelan reminded the Khan.

Ulric made a waving gesture. It had been his decision to give the bondsman the roms and not the reports, and he was interested in what conclusions the bondsman could, and would, draw from the raw data.

"The 3d Cavalry was obviously designed and equipped for a truly mobile warfare doctrine. We saw a little of it in the first engagement along the canal with the small flank-force that got cut off, but also in the retreat from the canal as well as they fell back on the cities. If they had used it to their fullest extent, their casualties would have been much lighter. Instead they followed a mission plan that would have been most effective for just the forces already on planet.

"The likeliest explanation was that they and the local garrison wanted to coordinate their movements and support each other, but lacked the familiarity with each other's equipment, training, and battle doctrine to mount an optimal defense. Coupled with the loss of a major headquarters unit, the observed defense would have simplified their command and control links and operations, while providing additional security to their headquarters elements.

"On Beta Galaxy's side, the saKhan's initial multiple converging thrusts failed rather spectacularly, but likely would have been far worse if it had just been the 41st Hussars down there without the 3d Cavalry. It appears that the Hussars were ready to lead Beta Galaxy into a series of running ambushes, while the 3d Cavalry Regiment was trying to turn it into a mobile open-field battle. The confusion probably led to their decision to abandon an open-field campaign.

"The follow-up Headhunter mission was clearly detected early but not grossly so. The likeliest explanation is that a sentry in the headquarters unit that was successfully attacked detected the Headhunter team in the lull between it getting into position and confirmation of the readiness of the other teams. The Headhunters attacked, successfully, once their mission was compromised, but most of the other headquarters were enough further inland to make an attack impossible once the alert had been sounded. . The few that were closer found units on high alert, and waiting for them in prepared positions.

"The street-by-street fighting that followed prevented the best use of 3d Cavalry's assets and turned the apparent main thrust of the battle into a slugging match that the 3d Cavalry's ground forces were never going to win. At the same time, it _did_ provide sufficient opportunity to inflict incredible amounts of damage upon Beta Galaxy."

Phelan hesitated, then dived right in. "The most telling error, however, was that saKhan Garth Radick failed to realize that the battle he faced was _not_ the main thrust, but rather a diversion. In failing to accept the offered Order of Battle he also failed to discover the 3d Calvary's unlanded BattleMech and Battle Armor forces."

"Assuming that armor was actually present," Ulric noted. "Positive conformation was never established."

"Aside from Star Commander Blada Neely's report during the battle," Phelan agreed. "I realize that the observed weapons—the water-launched missiles and the underwater torpedo-mines—make the presence of drop-deployed battle armor impossible. I have no way to account for the discrepancy. However, considering how hard they tried to conform to _your_ rules of engagement, I think it is more likely that they simply would have left the weapons unlisted if they were drop-deploying them and not the armored infantry. And they _did_ have other naval units listed in their OrBat, a service and supply detachment among other things."

"Very well, continued.

"When the complete OrBat, when those were transmitted to the saKhan during the drop, was not passed on," Phelan continued. "As a result, the 3rd Battle Cluster learned too late that they _did_ have armored infantry, and not just drop-deployed ECM emitters.

"The saKhan's failure to realize that the main focus of the attack was the StarPort, led him to send in several OmniMech trinaries piecemeal instead of concentrated. In each case the 3d Cavalry was able to bring superior numbers to bear. When _zellbrigen_ held our forces did better, but not as much as expected. At least some of this was no doubt due to the qualitative superiority of the 3d Cavalry's equipment over the rest of the Inner Sphere."

"What you mean to say is that our warriors expected to face the same mangy curs instead of wolves in their prime and got bitten because of it, quiaff?" Ulric said humorlessly.

"Aff," Phelan agreed. "And once _zellbrigen_ was voided, their superior numbers finished things quite handedly. I am unable to explain why _clan_ forces abandoned _zellbrigen_, Khan. I have observed that those from less…rigid clans will do so if presented with tactics that do not conform to clan traditions. This, however, is the first time I have observed the clans breaking those rules first when both sides had initially used them."

"They played an ancient cavalry march over the external speakers of their BattleMechs," Ulrich said.

Phelan frowned. "Playing music is cause to violate _Zellbrigen_, quineg?"

"Neg," Ulric said, "but in this case it is understandable. The apparent leader chose a different march than that of the rest of his battalion. He played the ancient parade march of the Royal Black Watch Regiment. A march that, in the Clans, is only played during the changing of the Honor Guard aboard _McKenna's Pride_ in orbit above Strana Machty where the Great Father is entombed."

Phelan started to continue with his analysis, but this answer made him pause and look back at the holo-tank.

"You have thought of something," Ulric observed.

"I don't, I mean I do not—" Phelan hesitated, then swept a hand out. The battle wound back until he found the point he was looking for. A gesture stilled the holographic reconstruction, and a hand gesture made one mech grow from ankle-height until it stood taller than he did. It was obviously a _Marauder_, the customary back-mounted cannon relocated into one shoulder, lasers at the hips in some kind of reversible mount that let them be aimed either forward or backward. It bore a camouflage pattern suitable for light forest, though bands of a dark tartan pattern encircled one pauldron and the opposite upper thigh.

"These symbols, the Star League emblem encircled with black," he said, indicating one. "The old sol-system disk of the Terran Hegemony. I could not find a reference to the rabbit in the database, but the crossed archaic handguns were used to indicate a graduate of the Advanced Combat and Maneuver School."

"The Gunslinger Program," Ulric said, "The Star League Defense Force. Somebody found some old BattleMechs in a Star League depot and put them to use. _That_," he said, indicating the tartan bands, "is the tartan of the Royal Black Watch regiment. It used to be painted that way when a MechWarrior left the Royal Black Watch to return to the regular Star League Defense Force.

"Oh, the machine has been updated. They must use a new type of engine based on the performance figures, and aside from one lightweight long-range particle cannon their energy weapons are Star League vintage," he continued, obfuscating just what 'new type of engine' they were using. "Their missile launchers, that can attack multiple targets as seen when they were de-mining the approach to the StarPort, is of a kind the Star League was only just beginning to experiment with. It is somewhat more robust than our own, but bulkier and much heavier, and its ability to engage multiple targets must hampered by atrocious accuracy from the way they were scattering their anti-mining missiles."

"What about their ballistics?" Phelan asked. "They have some kind of ultra-autocannon that can use cluster rounds, not to mention that rotating…whatever it is that the _Rifleman_ mechs are equipped with."

"Your point, Bondsman?"

"What if…what if this is not a unit from the Inner Sphere, but from the Clans?" Phelan asked. "Or someone who left around the same time the Clans did, or otherwise managed to avoid the succession wars, and continued to develop their battle-tech?"

Ulric did not, quite, glower. "Speak plainly."

"I have been studying the Clan Wolf Remembrance," Phelan said. "There is a passage that speaks of one of the Clans rebelling, and the Founder ordering that Clan destroyed.

"There is not much information available to me, but I did run across a copy of a report by the Loremaster at the time discussing discrepancies between the numbers of this Clan that had been confirmed dead, and those unaccounted for. Discrepancies that were put down to bookkeeping errors. And then, shortly after, I came across another report. This one made by a Clan Ghost Bear Warrior shortly before his death, detailing how they had observed JumpShips and DropShips from this clan departing Clan Space. He said that they did not alert Clan Wolf about them since they were Clan Wolf's problem, having won the Trials for the right to destroy them. What if these…people, are the descendants of—"

"No!" Ulric snapped. He paused for a moment in thought. In studying the history of the Clans in preparation for taking his first steps upon the honor road, t was inevitable that the bondsman would learn of the Not-Named. That he had managed to do so this quickly, and in such depth was…disconcerting. That he had done so and presented them as a viable rational for explaining the observed forces was…

"This issue, the fate of the survivors of the Not-Named," he continued carefully, but in a firm tone, "has been raised before, Bondsman. And it has since been settled. To raise it now would only distract us. You would have Clan Wolf halt where it is to pursue centuries-old reports and let the Smoke Jaguars become ilClan, quiaff?" he asked sarcastically. "For that is what will happen should the ilKhan learn of this pointless speculation, even if it is from a mercenary spheroid freebirth bondsman."

"Neg," Phelan said.

"No good, or at least nothing that can help us now, come from the Not-Named," Ulric muttered crossing to the holotank as Phelan quickly abandoned it. "Never forget, Bondsman, Terra is the prize, it must be our _only_ goal unless we would rather see the Falcons or Jaguars attain it. Besides, there is good reason to believe that these are _not_ them, descendants or otherwise."

"Sir?"

"It is not widely known, or rather, it is a fact we have done our best to forget, but the Not-Named created a BattleMech with a semi-modular component system to speed repairs. It served as the basis for what would eventually become the OmniMech. They also started the research and made several key breakthroughs for what would eventually become the Clans' standard particle projector cannon, which has half again the striking power of the Inner Sphere equivalent in a smaller and light package.

"The 3d Cavalry revealed a new kind of particle cannon, yes, but their extended-range models have the same emission spectra of old Star League models. Even if no improvements had been made, they would certainly at least having been using that enhanced version. Such was not the case."

"The Clans field Star League-equipment in some second- and third-line units," Phelan observed.

"And would you count these as second-line troops?" Ulric said. "No, and there are two good reasons these are not the Not-Named other than their equipment. First, as you pointed out they did not appear to recognize us, clearly improbable since Clan Wolf was responsible for hunting them down and destroying them. Further, they display no Clan insignia. If any of the Not-Named survived to have descendants, and those descendants know who they are, then I cannot imagine them abandoning their totem. They would have retained it just to spite us if nothing else."

Ulric glared at the computer terminal, as though it, and not Phelan, were responsible for the uncomfortable line of thought. "They deserved their totem," he said darkly, "it fitted them perfectly."

Phelan knew better than to ask, though he badly wanted to. "And the second point?"

"And my second point is that we know what WarShips were unaccounted for from the fleet list," Ulric said. "Both those left behind during the Exodus, and those missing after the annihilation of the Not-Named. None save two of the _Comfort_-class hospital ships accompanied the Great Father on the Exodus. Both are accounted for. Also, the SLS _Hood_ is accounted for. It was destroyed with all hands shortly after the Liberation of Terra."

"And yet it is here," Phelan said. "Khan Garth Radick confirms its transponder beacon."

* * *

Command and Operations Center  
1st Lyran Regulars RCT Garrison  
Ridderkerk

Felix Steiner stood in Hauptman-General Jerome Messina's operations center, his spine straight and hands clasped lightly behind his back. To the casual observer he looked every inch a Prussian Field Marshall of the old school. The same school that had produced the likes of Gebhard von Blücher, Paul von Hindenberg and Gerd von Rundstat. To the observer who knew what he was looking at, he appeared to be a calm, confident military commander.

Both of these observations would have been wrong.

The words from an old lecture, one of the first he had received on military command technique after entering the Academy, echoed in the back of his mind. "Nervousness is infectious," that lecturer repeated. "Nothing will cripple your troops' morale faster than an officer who is nervous. So don't fidget, don't fiddle with your gear—you either have it all right or you don't and if you don't and you fix it your troops will _know_ that you didn't—don't mop at the sweat beading your brow. Take a gander at your maps, take a sip of water, sit back and _relax_. If there's time you can talk with the troops a little, but don't talk about what's coming. Talk about the weather, a recent sports game… Most of all, don't ever let them see you sweat."

As the lecturer droned on, internally Felix Steiner seethed. The Regulars, without the patronage of other Lyran units, were always the last to receive new equipment, training, everything really. The FedCom Armed Forces had started to turn that around, but it was taking far more time than it should have. He had battalion commanders that had no clue as what to do, regimental commanders who were running around like decapitated chickens, and a staff that was so incredibly inept he would have done better to put them all up against the wall and then do all of their jobs for them.

If any of it had been because of what was coming for them, he wouldn't have blamed them. Before he had fought the Clans he had thought the tactical and intelligence briefs provided him were wildly inaccurate. Certainly they were more powerful than any force seen in the Inner Sphere in centuries, but not nearly as lethal as reported. Unfortunately, the chaos he was seeing had nothing to do with Clan Wolf. It had apparently been going on for days, and all because their CO had been in a car accident.

"Colonel Goetz, the 951st will send out detachments of infantry under trained sappers to every magazine, bunker, kasern, lager, depot, armory, and military storage facility. As each unit moves out, the detachments will set up demo and then destroy any equipment or stores of military value that said units are unable to take with them."

"You're insane!"

"And you, Colonel Goetz, are relieved," Felix said with cold relish to one of the faces on the master teleconference screen that linked him with the commanders of the 1st Lyran Regulars Regimental Combat Team, or at least the senior officer in their respective headquarters.

"You can't do that," the officer in question said in a petulant tone.

"On the contrary," Felix said. "Major Brandt has a detachment on their way to your location right now. I suggest, Colonel, in interests of your continued good health, you do as they say." The first thing he had done after landing was to contact the senior MP—there was a full battalion on the planet. It was so nice to have capable subordinates.

"Major Lorenz, you are brevetted to lieutenant-colonel. Command of the 951st is in your hands. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Excellent," Felix hissed. "Colonel Keitz, you will move your BattleMech regiment and secure the spaceport, immediately. Your support troops will embark upon their DropShips _at once!_ "

The acting BattleMech Regiment CO at least looked like he knew what he was doing. At least so long as there was someone around to tell him what he _should_ be doing. That was something at least.

"Colonels Holm, Tabbert, and von Stugen," he went on, "since you have proven yourselves unable of planning a simple ring defense, I have taken the liberty of defining areas of responsibility for each of you. You have ten minutes to have your first armored vehicle in motion towards these areas."

"Impossib—" Holm choked off her complaint at gave him a wide-eyed look.

"Better, Colonel," Felix said mildly, "better."

He turned to the remaining commanders. "Infantry, aside from the 951st will embark immediately. Likewise the artillery as the buildings will provide blast-shadows that you cannot fire into, and VTOL units. Aerospace Commanders, you will escort the DropShips. I will trust this to not be too difficult for you?

"Armor," he continued before anyone could try to answer his rhetorical question. "Once the infantry has boarded you will fall back on the spaceport through the BattleMech covering force…"

* * *

Ducal Palace  
Tamar

Selvin Kelswa the Third, Duke of Tamar leaned forward slightly in his chair and gave his guest an intense look. "I agree with the Primus' concerns wholeheartedly," he said. "Given the technological capability these new people have already demonstrated they are almost certainly a faction of the Clans. What better way to attack us than to gain our trust, learn our troop depositions and movements, our plans, the new tactics and weapons that are being developed?"

"By all accounts they put up a most successful struggle against the Clan on Planting," Precentor Comria Barbian noted, stirring the pot a little.

"Bah! One useless backwater agricultural world," Kelswa said. "That unit hasn't slowed since their 'defeat'. The only real evidence we have of their supposed successful attack comes from them. Everyone knows how easily scan data and battle roms can be faked by someone with enough processing power and they have WarShips! How much more processing power could they possibly need?

"Oh, I admit that they probably fought for real in front of the Davion forces, assuming they didn't have their precious federated sun in their eyes. But that was peanuts compared to what these people have claimed to do. And please note that outside of the starport strike which wasn't nearly as effective as they claimed, they refused to allow those Davions anywhere near the _real_ military campaign.

"No, mark my words, Precentor, they may claim to be our allies, but how would being under their boot-heel be any different than being conquered outright by the Clans?"

"And the Prince-Archon has brought them to your doorstep," Comria noted.

"Exactly." The Duke of Tamar gave his companion a disgusted look. "Davion says that I should be happy since I'm getting the forces and more that I requested. I wanted five good, solid, Lyrian regimental combat teams to back up the 26th. Instead I get told that no, that it's impossible, that it'll leave other vital worlds undefended. But now he can park actual WarShips above my head and tell me to be grateful!"

Comria allowed himself a smile of satisfaction, one that didn't reach his face, as he stirred the tea in his cup.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Canton Downs, Ridderkirk

"Let's go, General," I muttered. An SLDF division—why the locals insisted on calling them 'Regimental Combat Teams' I had no idea—would have long since boarded their droppers and headed for orbit.. Unfortunately that wasn't the case here.

I had kept my squadron moving, maintaining light contact, and so far the woofies had matched me. Canton Downs had been left behind as we broke off to the east. We were now moving through a vast network of river gorges and glacial deposits that formed a north-south running network, and preparing to wheel north. They weren't so steep that we couldn't go over them, but at the same time their composition was nearly impervious to mech-mounted sensors, which was why _Apache_ was laying down networks of remote sensors—actually range instrumentation packs intended for training, but right now I'd take what I could get—as it scouted ahead of us (or behind us, depending on how you looked at it). Keeping in the terrain features would go a long way towards reducing the woofies' range advantage, and hopefully we'd be able to stay mobile.

A mech we hadn't gotten around to coming up with a designation for yet, stuck its front end around a corner and I lit it up with energy weapons. Between the lasers and light PPCs _Durandal_ normally carried, I had packed another two light PPCs into the right torso and a rack of heat sinks into the left. The weapon bays really called for a missile battery or perhaps another ballistic weapon, but space and mass weren't the biggest constraints.

The gyro would tolerate no more than a two-ton differential between the two positions, including ammunition expenditures. This alone would be sufficient to keep one torso bay from being loaded exclusively with ammunition pallets. Of course, such a load was impossible in any case for there were no provisions for cross-connecting the two bays. The only good news was at least the designer had realized that someone might want to carry more ammunition for the rail guns so there were, at least, transfer tubes out to the arms. As for the rail guns themselves, they were proving to be just as...difficult as the original testers had said.

Theoretically a gauss rifle was an adjustable weapon. By pumping more power to the electromagnets and tinkering with the on/off timing sequence a projectile could be accelerated faster or slower, with benefits to damage and range going one way and accuracy going the other along with their corresponding penalties. In practice this kind of fine adjustment had proven too much for a mech-jock in the heat of battle, too finicky for most DIs, increased the likelihood of an unlucky hit knocking the electromagnets out of alignment, and frankly made the whole thing less robust than a weapon with a 'locked' configuration. Some units, mostly those that specialized in long-range sniping attacks, still practiced with it to give themselves an edge if they end up in close combat, but for most the electromagnets were locked down.

A rail gun, however, didn't use multiple electromagnets to accelerate a round. Instead each ceramic projectile was set in a metallic electricity-conducting sabot that fitted the two bars that ran the length of the barrel. By applying an electric charge to the bars, the sabot (and projectile) was accelerated down the barrel using the same principles as the 'Jacob's Ladder' found in most high school introductory-physics labs.

On the surface it was a very attractive weapon. It didn't need to store a charge since it drew power directly from the fusion plant and the projectiles were non-explosive. As a result, the possibility of the weapon—or its ammo—exploding under enemy fire wasn't a worry as was the case with a gauss rifle or autocannon. As the weapon took a feed directly from the power plant 'fine tuning' the weapon was far more practical than was the case with the gauss rifle. And compared to a gauss rifle, laser, or particle cannon, the weapon was simple, which meant it could be made more cheaply, more robustly, and more easy to repair.

Theoretically and relatively speaking, of course. In practice the conducting bars were the most expensive piece in the weapon, and they were not inexpensive.

But unlike the magnets of a gauss rifle, the twin rails that cared the charge were subject to friction. In fact, rail-wear had been one of the primary factors that had kept a practical rail-gun from being developed for centuries—a millennium at this point. New alloys made possible by the new superconductors had made a practical rail-gun possible, but the rails still had a distressing failure rate that was made worse by 'over-charging' a round or by rapid-firing 'under-charged' rounds. This was only partially compensated for by having three sets of rails in each gun, one set of spares above and below the primary. When one pair wore out or, and more commonly, broke, the spent rails would be ejected out the muzzle while another pair locked into place. Replacing them was difficult, in fact, only the center set could be replaced without entirely dismounting the weapon, but having the spares did add a measure of redundancy.

Armor shattered, and I watched one laser dug in deep, but I didn't stick around to find out if I had inflicted any serious damage. Trees ignited as I hit the jets and rode a tail of fusion plasma up and over one of the rock-sided, tree-crowned hills.

"Have you finished recalculating the heat profiles for the rail-guns yet?" I asked as I touched down. Only a handful of units had used rail-guns in field trials, and all had reported that accurate heat-profiles were specific to individual mechs or vehicles, and they needed to be recalculated every time a weapon was mounted. _Durandal_ had had its railguns mounted for more than a decade, but heat profiles had never been worked up.

"I have an accurate profile for primary-mode fire," _Durandal_ said. "Calculating a profile for rapid and over-charged modes will require further data to be gathered."

A ping announced the presence of rash-red-highlighted battle armor. I twisted to the right and flicked to railguns. The targeting ring flashed red and I stroked the triggers. Two tell-tales winked out.

"Damn it, Arthur, where are you?" I said. _Big Horn_ troop was supposed to be playing rear-guard.

"Artillery," _Durandal_ noted. A remote sensor had picked up the launch, more than a klick and a half away from my current location.

"_Regulator_, counter-battery fire!"

"Missile-defense is active," _Durandal_ noted.

"Snap-fire, two rounds," I heard my arty command order over the open comm. until _Durandal_ closed it.

The new improved Thumper artillery pieces could each put up to four rounds into the air on different ballistic paths so all struck the ground at the same time. There would be a delay after while the reloader shuffled ammunition, but each piece was rated for six rounds a minute at ten-second intervals. This could be violated—the possible max was around nine rounds per minute—but only at greatly increased wear on the tube.

"Missile count…twenty missiles in flight," _Durandal_ reported. "Re-flagging two of the enemy lances as artillery."

I was turning back to the battle armor when a wave of LRMs washed over them. Howie Arnett's _King Crab_ thumped down beside me—jumped down from one of the cliffs since it didn't have jets. It straightened and ruby laser beams briefly connected it to clustered battle armor before it opened up with its twin OmniX-20 autocannons. "_Apache_, Mahler, circle around, find that arty and put it out of commission."

* * *

"Got you!" Eugene Mahler gloated. If the woofies had any air support so far it hadn't shown itself, and his long end-around had taken him squarely into their rear areas. Not that the woofies had a whole lot of rear area, but if this turned into a long pounding match, which seemed likely unless someone did something, he was firmly astride their supply line and they didn't even know it. As it was, someone was about to do something. He was, and he was pretty sure that they weren't going to like it at all.

"_Regulator_, _Apache_, request fire mission, over." The remote deployed sensor/communications packs relayed this through a series of com-lasers until it reached the main force, thus denying the woofies even the remote possibility of detecting a micro-burst transmission.

"_Apache, Regulator,_ send." This was accompanied by a rather dramatic sigh.

Eugene flipped to a reference grid and flicked it over the tactical map. _Regulator_ already knew where they were, roughly speaking. That was good enough for infantry and other unarmored or lightly armored targets, or if they had the rounds to spare to saturate the area, but they had neither. With someone scouting for the arty they could put a round within fifty meters of a specific point, or illuminate a point-target with a targeting laser for a laser-guided round. Which was where _Apache_ troop came in.

"_Apache_, Ten enemy artillery mechs. Five each, spread sixty meters from grid A6203 H5483 and J3924 O9262 in a pentagon formation." A command program on the flight in had created a grid-map two-hundred and fifty klicks on a side, with grid-spacing accurate to thirty meters. The alphanumeric designations were completely random to prevent giving any information away should the transmission be intercepted.

"_Regulator,_ ten mechs, five each within sixty meters grids A6203 H5483 and J3924 O9262."

"_Apache,_ Request TOT barrage and guided on command mechs."

"_Regulator_, TOT barrage. 18 dumb rounds, 6 guided, HE, no delay, dispersed 90 meters."

"_Apache_, roger, hold, over."

"_Regulator_, hold, over."

Eugene touched the control that brought up the command circuit and turned to his lance commanders. "Addy," he said, starting with Adrienne Hensly, "take first lance towards the southern group and have Corporal Schmidt light up the lance leader. Matt, third lance will accompany the command element against the north. You'll have to cover the First Sergeant while he designates that command-mech.

"Glenn I need you to take second lance south-west. I plan for us to come straight through that pass fast enough for them to follow, then make a high-speed run south and east to circle all the way around their main force. Talk with _Regulator_ about setting up a barrage. I want them hammered if they decide to follow us.

"Questions? None? Outstanding. Get moving, you have five minutes.

"_Regulator, Apache_."

"_Regulator_,Go _Apache_."

"_Apache_, five minutes."

"_Regulator_, copy, out."

"You do realize that such elaborate radio procedures are superfluous with my capabilities," Blue Max noted.

Eugene knew this quite well, actually. With the technical and computational support available old-school radio procedures were largely unnecessary. In the case of calling for an arty-barrage they were cumbersome and took badly needed seconds, hence the sigh from _Regulator_. And, admittedly, if the threat had been a bit more…immediate, Eugene would have skipped the formulaic call-response cycle. Still…

"You can take the MechWarrior out of the forward observers, but you can't take the forward observer out of the MechWarrior," Eugene commented to the DI.

The DI considered this. Decision trees indicated that at this juncture some form of response was clearly indicated. Lacking sufficient information to formulate a coherent response the logical thing to do was gather more information. "I don't understand."

"The Brave Rifles recruited me during the Terra campaign."

"You were assigned to me shortly before the Battle of Chicago."

"That's right," Eugene said distractedly as he negotiated the mech up an embankment. "Before that I was a forward observer for first brigade's artillery in the 328th Royal. You can make things simpler, easier, and if we're under fire that's a good thing. But if you're not in a hurry, going through the steps can be fun."

"I do not understand…fun."

* * *

"Damn it."

The explosion hadn't been very big, a bit less than half a kiloton, and the terrain created blast shadows and funneled most of it away from us, but the local ecology was going to be years, likely decades, in recovering. Most standard mech-scale fusion plants do _not_ go super-critical no matter what you read in books. Part of it is because the shielding built into the core that absorbs the free-neutrons also tends to do a good job of cooling and slow down the fusion reaction before it breaches the containment vessel. A bigger part of it is because the energy needs of a mech are miniscule compared to what a proper high-density fusion generator is capable of cranking out. As a result—and because it keeps the generals from having to worry that if one battle-damaged mech decides to explode it'll blast a kilometers-wide hole in their lines—the fusion engines used by mechs (and armor, etc) use _low_-pressure systems. Since the engine feeds are usually the first thing cut when engine damage approaches that kind of level, most explosions just aren't that big.

Warships, on the other hand, _are_ energy hogs and do use high-density fusion plants, but they also have hundreds or even thousands of tons of armor.

The use of helium-3 in our plants only partially explains our machines performance. Since helium-3 uses a higher fusing temp/pressure setting than straight hydrogen, we get more power for a given plant size and our plants are lighter too boot. Of course, with the higher pressure and without the neutron-absorbing shielding layers, super-critical fusion events are somewhat more common for us.

"Mahler, report!"

"I'm down three mechs," came the snarled response. "You've seen Apache-Three-Two, yes?"

Three-Two must be the mushroom cloud.

"I see it," I said.

"The other two mechs have been destroyed with energy fire to prevent sensitive material from falling into enemy hands," he continued. "Two pilots recovered, Three-Two never made it out of his mech. Lance Three survived, but they have critical damage and are falling off to the south-west and will need to be recovered. I'm down to eight effectives and all of us have heavy damage. On the up side I think we've taken out their artillery. I've got five confirmed kills including both lance commanders. The rest are damaged…plus whatever Three-Two took with him."

"Good," I said. It wasn't good about the losses, but he knew that and knew that I knew that. "_Big Horn_, head east. Hide and prepare to fall on their rear as they come past. _Comanche_, begin to fall off to the north."

The 7th had finally landed to the north-east and were heading down the gorges towards us. It was a combined arms regiment with a very fluid company/troop system that allowed them to swap around sub-units with great ease. In addition to the regimental HQ, there were three battalion HQs (the regiment HQ would command the fourth when they broke into squadrons), two companies of hover armor, two companies of mounted (mechanized) infantry, four companies of tracked armor, and four companies of mechs, plus two arty batteries and an ADA section. In this terrain, unable to get up to speed, the hover-tracks were just so many sitting targets, and in close without maneuver room the tracks were just as bad off. To further complicate matters they were just as hard up for ammunition as we were.

"General Steiner."

A portion of the holographic 'sky' in my cockpit opened and General Steiner peered through it.

"How much longer, General?" I asked.

"Hours, maybe days," he said grimly, "that may be overly pessimistic on my part, but it's equally likely that it's wishful thinking. They weren't even on full-alert. I could speed it up by leaving everything short of light-arms, but entirely refitting an RCT would take long enough to make them practically worthless. We need to load at least the mechs, armor, and arty—the fighters at least can dock on the leg out—and make preparations to render the supplies left behind worthless. It's going to take a while just to rig all the ammo bunkers to blow."

I wasn't sure if that last point was worth the time or effort. The woofies far outclassed the Lyrans—which was why we were fighting a delaying action. The chances of their ammunition or spare parts being just the material the woofies needed to keep on rolling were slim to none. But I had learned something about invading someone else's home and then I had learned some more stuff about kicking someone out of your home once he's invaded. In those terms, blowing up your supplies rather than leaving them behind to be turned against you—regardless of whether or not they actually _can_ be turned against you—made all kinds of sense.

"Understood," I said, turning back to my map. The hills were denying the woofies the full advantage of the longer effective-range of their energy weapons for now, but if General Steiner's estimates were right I was going to run out of them before we could lift.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Tamar  
ComStar compound  
Office of Virginia Hoppe, Precentor Tamar

"I must protest."

"Your protests have been noted," Virginia said coldly. The man who stood before her could have stepped out of a recruiting poster for the AFFS, or played the part of a suitably heroic MechWarrior in a big-budget holo-drama. _Unfortunately_, the Precentor of Tamar thought sourly, _he was neither_.

She had thought it a bad idea when the Primus has first ordered the unveiling of the ComGuards. The double command structure of the ComGuards and those who actually ran the HPGs meant that giving Lawrence Urrutia orders was complicated at best. In fact, she privately doubted that it gave her the authority within the Blessed Order to force Urrutia to follow an order that he objected to strongly enough. That would have been bad enough, but four succession wars, a half dozen only slightly less horrific wars (at least on terms of scale), and countless conflicts, police actions, skirmishes, rebellions, insurrections, and other battles, had provided ample examples of one group of people lashing out with a rock simply because another group of people had their own rock.

There was no better way to convince the Successor States to try and take the HPGs—at least in the opinion of one Precentor Virginia Hoppe— than to give them something visible to shoot at. Recently she had come to the conclusion that revealing the Com Guards was an even worse decision than she had originally thought. Their sudden revelation must have made the Successor Lords wonder why ComStar had suddenly felt the need to protect itself. Either it was revealing a weakness in the Blessed Order, or it knew in advance that these 'Clans' were coming.

But worries about the Successor Lords and what they or their armies might do were purely secular concerns. What they would soon face in the skies was a problem of an entirely different nature. A threat to everything the Blessed Order had worked towards for the past two and a half centuries. Unforeseen, incalculable, bringer of chaos that none could predict, disrupting centuries of work and effort and sacrifice. They might believe to be doing good, they might even have honestly good intentions—Virginia Hoppe was realist enough to accept and grant them this—but their very presence was an affront to the Will of the Blessed Blake himself!

She took a deep breath.

"Precentor Urrutia," she continued in a much calmer tone. "I can understand your…apprehension. These _are_ dark days. However, the Blessed Order's compounds have been inviolable for centuries without the safety and Security of the ComGuards. If Clan Wolf were closer, than I would agree that removing the Guards at this time would be contraindicated, but this is not the case. Under the present circumstances I am quite confident in our security.

"It is in this light that I am ordering you to accede to Marshall Correlli's very reasonable request that we provide an Opposition force for her next series of exercises. Besides, was it not just last week that you were in this very office telling me that you were planning on conducting some field exercises of your own? Something how simulators were fine training tools, but there were things that no simulator could teach."

"True enough," Urrutia acknowledged. "I just do not like the idea of leaving the compound unguarded. The Duke has become increasingly…erratic. I do not trust him not to do something…unfortunate."

"That is because Kelswa is a reactionary old fool who was none-too-stable to begin with," Virginia said dryly. "The very real threat that Clan Wolf presents to his precious, 'Sacred Tamar' is causing him to crack under the strain. His perception of reality is growing increasingly warped and he may very well try something stupid, which is why the Compound will _not_ be 'unguarded'. "

"_Mercenaries_?" Urrutia gaped.

"The War College has agreed to see to our security, actually," Virginia said. "The Duke offered to loan me a unit of his personal guard, but I declined it. He was quite upset," she added for the benefit of Urrutia, "but even _he_ had to agree how it would look to the other Successor Lords if we allowed a unit sworn to the service of a Lord in one of the Houses to guard a ComStar compound."

"Still, the Tamar War College is firmly in his pocket," Urrutia said.

"For funding, yes, including the purchase of BattleMechs, though the ones he has purchased of late are decrepit machines even by the standards of the Inner Sphere. But they are accredited by the Federated Commonwealth and the last thing the Commandant wants is to have to explain to Hanse Davion how forces under his authority violated Our neutrality. We shall provide a little support—replace some minor parts and provide a fresh coat of paint, perhaps—and reap the benefits of being seen to aid the Inner Sphere in these terrible times."

"It seems as though I do not have much of a choice," Urrutia grumbled. "You have already thought of all my arguments and provided a counter to them, have you not?"

Virginia smiled sweetly at him. "Blake's Will be done, Precentor."

"Blake's Will be done," Urrutia grumbled back. He bobbed his head in a manner that might have been a gesture of respect before turning on his heels and stalking out of the office.

"Yes, Precentor, Blake's Will _will_ be done," Virginia murmured, "as it must."

* * *

Ridderkirk System  
Ridderkirk/Satellite L1 Point  
Flagdeck, SLS _Hood  
_

Privately, Ariel Murakama had nothing but respect for whoever was in charge of the woofie fleet component. Rather than face a long flight-time from the standard points, she had jumped a pair of _Star Lord_-class jumpships into the system primary/Ridderkirk L1 point. Not only had it cut the transit time for the droppers from days to mere hours, but it had put the primary at the two jumpships' metaphorical back which had kept the planet from noticing the EM and thermal waves that heralded their emergence. The jump had been complicated by the position of the third planet and the jumpers were riding their station-keeping drives hard to stay in the zone, but they were going to be good for jump just as soon as the woofie dropships rendezvoused and hooked in.

"Do you wish us to pursue, General?" she asked rhetorically as she rested a fist on a hip. It was a pose worthy of a trivid, a gesture that would let the watchers know that she knew the odds were not nearly so much in her favor as they looked…and that she didn't care.

Richard Winters stared into the depths of the holo-tank. Enabling the half-dozen transports for the 7th and 1/4th Cavalry Regiments to make a single jump into the Ridderkerk L1 point had taken intricate station-keeping and careful synchronization of their KF-drives. Without either it hadn't been possible for Murakama to move anything like a fraction of her fleet—in fact she had only brought _Hood, Birkenhead,_ and _Tradewind_—to come to their assistance. In essence she was running a bluff.

Unlike the warships used by the SLDF's Naval-branch, those purpose-built to be on permanent 'detached' duty to the Black Watch had much more narrow design constraints. Where regular warships had played cargo-vessel and fighter carrier as well as broadside combatant, and regularly carried enough supplies to cruise literally for years, the cruisers and destroyers that had made up the gunslingers—the line-combatant escorts—for the Black Watch were designed as pure broadside combatants. While Admiral Murakama's flagship was still an SLDF-N vessel, it had spent more than a little time in the yard being refit closer to Black Watch standards, but it hadn't reached those standards yet.

_Tradewind_ had been built on a _Potempkin_-class hull, and effort had been taken over the past ten years to make her _appear_ as a member of that class, but it wouldn't take much effort for an attacker to realize that she was effectively unarmed and unarmored. _Birkenhead_ actually was a _Potempkin_, and the ground attack units it carried would have stomped the woofies if they remained on-planet, but it had only its own guns to protect itself against anything sent at it and SLDF WarShips were notorious for their lack of point-defense. _Hood_, of course, was a battleship, and would take a lot of killing, but the refits had robbed her of her attached fighter squadrons and she hadn't received the massive point-defense batteries and the fire-control to handle them that the Black Watch purpose-built ships had.

The logistics dropships she'd carried had immediately assumed a covering formation. In fact, it was the standard formation for a squadron of _Pentagon_-class assault dropships. At their current range the woofies could certainly see the formation, though probably couldn't get a hard reading on the droppers. _Tradewind_ had released its own droppers and they formed a small cloud around the three central vessels, but they would be even more vulnerable than the logistics ships and the valuable vessels and were effectively irreplaceable.

Given the size of the observed forces, and the observed drop ship classes, the woofies almost certainly had to be holding at least one—more probably two—of their out-sized aerospace squadrons in reserve. They might even have more than that, if the jumpships had been configured into pocket-carriers for self-defense.

Considering the relative forces, the woofies would certainly lose if they were brought to action. As soon as _Hood_ was within range it would open up those jumpers like a force-blade through a combat ration-wrapper, at which point the droppers and fighters would be stuck in-system. _Hood_ would take a beating from those fighters first, though, and finding time to make repairs would be…interesting.

Part of General Winters was tempted to take Admiral Murakama up on her offer, if only to see her reaction. But no, he decided. They would let the woofies flee. Having their soldiers come back with tales of defeat would play harder on their morale than having an over-sized battalion simply disappear.

"No," he said, his tone treating it like the serious offer that everyone on the flag bridge knew it wasn't. "No pursuit, Admiral. We'll wait right here until they jump out, and then the Task Force will double-jump straight to Tamar…if you think we're up to it."

"Ironically enough, all of our KF-drives look good, General," Murakama said. "I only wish the same could be said for other systems."

* * *

Tamar Orbit  
Flagdeck, SLS _Hood_

"Orbit, Admiral."

"Nicely executed, Captain Paulus," Ariel Murakama replied levelly to her flag captain. Actually it was even better than that. Compared to the massive fleets she had watched go into combat not even a full year before, Task Force TH-X1138 barely deserved the 'Task Force' designation, and yet it was probably the most awesome display of martial power that the Inner Sphere had seen in two centuries. Paulus had put not just _Hood_, but nearly sixty ships, and four times that number of dropships, into orbit in the space of perhaps two seconds. It was as nicely a piece of parade-formation flying as she'd seen in her career, especially since they hadn't _done_ any parade-formation flying in…six years, almost seven?

She thought about it briefly before giving a mental shrug. "Please alert astro-control that we have arrived in our designated parking orbits. Malachi," she half-turned to her staff communications officer. "Please establish a channel with Marshal Corelli."

"EM spike!"

"_What_?" Murakama's head snapped around towards the shout from Eric LeBlanc, her tactical officer.

She turned just in time to see the coded light in the holotank that marked the position of SLS _Birkenhead_ flare, then turn into the purple-colored inverted horseshoe indicating a total loss, skipping right past the tiny purple cross that would have indicated a dead/derelict ship.

"_Birkenhead_ is code omega," LeBlanc whispered.

Murakama felt her blood congeal. The _Potempkin_-class troopship was capable of transporting an entire division and dropping them directly into combat. An almost five-hundred person crew, dead in less time than it took to blink. It didn't have its dropships attached since it had been under its own thrust, but the ships in formation around it _had_ to have taken damage and General Halliday was certainly as dead as his flagship was…which meant TH-X1138 had just lost its third senior-most officer.

"Report!" she snapped. She turned to leBlanc. "Nuke?" After General Steiner's report about the status of the Inner Sphere she didn't think anyone would be quite so callous as to violate the Ares Conventions that openly, but there just weren't that many things that would spike an EM reading _and_ were capable of taking out a warship.

Even with a nuke it was hard to completely destroy a warship.

"No." Her tactical officer visibly shook himself. "Emission spectra is wrong, Admiral. It wasn't a nuke. There was an odd double-spike, and the secondary emission signature conforms to a pure-fusion detonation with helium-spectra markers," leBlanc said. "Her reactors exploded."

"Dear God…" Ariel whispered turning back to the holotank. "_How_?" She had seen it happen before, but not without battle damage. _Serious_ battle damage.

"We're working on that."

"Admiral, we're starting to pick up distress calls—"

"How bad?"

"Three transports took severe damage and are being evacuated," her Chief of Staff said from where she was just putting on her own headset. "_Yamaguchi_ is reporting the loss all of its armor and weapons on its port broadside. And the transport _Admiral Tojo_ reports that one of its assigned droppers, _Shirakumo_, was hulled be a piece of debris the size of an assault 'mech. It carried the fourth battalion of the Kuronami."

Murakama managed not to wince. _Yamaguchi_ was one of her _Wodehouse_-type destroyers, the Royal Black Watch (Naval Escort Group) version of the _Lola III_. Normally DesRon 23 was made up of four divisions of three _Wodehouse_ destroyers and a _Busby_—NEG's destroyer-leaders based on the _Riga_ hull—as a div-leader. The Event had, for reasons unknown, left behind all of the first division, and _Yamaguchi_ was the single vessel from the fourth division to have made transition with the Task force.

"We're still trying to assess damage to the droppers around _Birkenhead_," LeBlanc cut in. "At least two blew up, and several are drifting. EMP might have shut them down, we're hoping. Further damage reports are still coming in."

"Away lifeboats and rescue craft," Captain Paulus's voice ordered someone on his bridge that was outside of the audiovisual pickups. "Admiral?" he paused just long enough for Ariel to turn to her pickups, "Captain Nestor is taking charge of SAR ops."

"Understood, cut DesDiv 232 loose to escort _Mercy_."

"The Nessies are breaking formation," Ruth Bakerfield announced.

She started to turn towards her Chief of Staff, but a quick call from her communications officer turned her back.

"_Ark Royal_ reports that _Birkenhead_ was destroyed by surface fire, Admiral. It's squealing us a data—"

"In the tank, now," leBlanc cut in.

Murakama turned back to the holotank as a light pattern—indicating a massive EM burst but no accompanying thermal events and nothing at all in the visible light-spectrum—blossomed on the planet's surface a moment before _Birkenhead_ exploded.

"Silver Tower," Ruth whispered.

Ariel turned and looked at her Chief of Staff. 'Silver Tower' was one of several SLDF reporting codes for events that involved what were still euphemistically called 'Weapons of Mass Destruction'. Most of the codes on that list covered the miss-handling, lost, theft, damage-to, or accidental detonation of, nuclear warheads—still the most common of WMDs.

"_Confirm_ that, Ruth," Ariel heard herself say. She felt strangely detached. Aware, almost _super_-aware of the activity going on around her, but not feeling any of it affect her.

"The surface event shares the same geospatial coordinates as Tamar's HPG, Admiral," her Chief of Staff said. "No indications of sub-surface, surface, or air-burst detonation of a thermonuclear or neutron-pulse weapon. Emission spectra matches what we'd expect to see from the aggressive discharge of a circa 2750 planetary-scale hyper-pulse generator."

That wasn't quite confirmation. It was certainly possible for the planetary HPG to have been moved, destroyed, or even for a new HPG to be built and the first demolished in the centuries that they had missed. A Silver Tower event _would_ fit neatly with the observed effects. Nothing electrical, no matter how hardened, could have survived a Silver Tower event. With the loss of the magnetic bottles there was nothing to stop _Birkenhead_'s reactors from letting go. If it had been a 'mech that was targeted the fusion plant might have survived, especially the old-fashioned kind that were still designed with heavy neutron-shielding components. The low-temp/low-pressure reactors that most of humanity relied upon weren't sufficient for a warship though, not without giving an intolerable amount of the ship's mass and internal volume over to reactors.

"Scatter the task force," Murakama ordered as she took the two steps needed to cross to her command couch. She dropped into it and her hands sought out the battle frame and locked it into place around her. The fit was off since she wasn't wearing the vacuum suit intended to be worn in battle and that would have protected her from explosive decompression were the bridge to be breached, but it would suffice to protect her from most concussion damage and keep her from being flung from her seat. "Flash message, all ships," she continued, hitting the control to deploy her repeater displays from their stowed positions, "Silver Tower. Captain Paulus, take the task force to battle stations if you please."

* * *

Tamar Orbit  
Central Mechbay, SLDS _George Murray_

_Durandal_ dropped me out of the simulation we were running so quickly that I thought someone had gotten in a lucky cockpit hit that had 'killed' me.

"_Birkenhead_ was just destroyed by ground fire," it said before I could say anything. "Admiral Murakama has declared Silver Tower."

"Trudy, break orbit, take us down!" I snapped. She and a reduced flight crew had been piloting us from the nadir jump-point to planetary orbit, while the remainder of her crew had traveled in relative comfort aboard the assault ships. A pattern repeated on the other dropships. But my squadron was fully present, catching sleep in our command couches and eating field rations while using the datalinks between the droppers to run simulated field exercises.

"Quarterhorse, secure for drop!"

Barely had I gotten it out before the _G_s slapped me against the restraining straps of _Durandal_'s command couch. They bit into my shoulders and chest as negative-g forces made my vision start to red-out. It was going to be one of those days.

* * *

Tamar Orbit  
Command Deck, SLDS _Ft. Garland_

Kenneth Ivanhoe Tennyson Carson cordially disliked his name, but was almost equally thankful to his parents for giving him an excuse to have a nickname after one of his favorite historical figures. At the moment, however, such petty distractions could not have been further from his mind.

"General Carson to all Ground-Force elements, I am assuming command of ground forces." _Hood_ had come through, but Admiral Murakama was giving priority for its communication links to keeping the task force alive. And in any case, it would be a while before a dropper could link up with it to transfer General Winters, and the commander needed to be on the ground with his troops. The holographic battleboard in his command dropship updated. "General Jackson, take your division, the Boarderers, the Knights of the Cross, and the 1er_ Régiment d'Artillerie de Marine_ and move to block the unit calling itself the 223rd ComGuards Division."

The battleboard updated again, and Carson smothered an oath as the light codes for the Royal Dragoons (Scots Greys) and a battalion of the 16th Director-General's Own Lancers, turned to the purple crosses of dead units. In this case they weren't so much 'wiped out to the man', but merely 'combat ineffective' at least until a full assessment of their losses could be made. The 2e _Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine_, a Marine unit that specialized in trans-littoral combat environments went with them—the board updated again— along with two battalions from the 3er_ Régiment d'Artillerie de Marine_, and two irreplaceable _Tawara_-class naval gunfire support dropships (one of these destroyed by a piece of debris, the other unknown) . Loss of the _RIMa_ was bad, but not immediately crippling as there weren't any litorall combat zones that he currently had to worry about, but the _RAMa_ operated of mix of air-defense, tube and rocket artillery. And _Harvey_, one of the two _Mako_-class refits that were designed for surface fire-support had caught the edge of the pulse that had caused _Birkenhead_ to blow up and its systems were in full reset mode.

"General Jackson, your command is designated Task Force Lion. Colonel Vicente, the Paissandu Regiment will establish a DZ north and east of the 26th Lyran's garrison. 5th Marines, 10th Marine Arty, Ceti Lancers, _Kuronami_, Skinner's Horse, and _Regimento de Lanceiros_, designated Task Force Bear. I will assume tactical coomand of Task Force Bear as soon as the DZ has been established. Colonel Moon, your _Fortresses_ go down as soon as Colonel Vicente gives the okay.

"Colonel Brenard, the Royal Horse will take the Ducal palace, supported by _Jydske Dragonregiment_. Lt. Colonel Talbot, the War College nearby is yours, but you fall under Colonel Brenard's command. The 7th Parachute Royal Horse Artillery will support you, Colonel Brenard. Task Force Packers.

"Colonel Whitfield, the 41 Commando and the 1st Marines are the primary on clearing the HPG. 7th Cav, 29th arty, backstop. Task Force Viking.

"1st Royal Australian, 1st Royal Canadian, and Wendes artilleriregemente here, set up Firebase Hammer.

"5th and 32nd Royal Arty, and 62nd (Shawinigan) Field Regiment, here, Firebase Mallet."

Carson felt the shudder that indicated his dropship was passing the first atmospheric boundary layer and tightened his restraints a little as he wondered if anyone would recognize the naming convention. Eight and a half centuries and the North American Central Division games were _still_ the only ones worth watching. Maybe things had improved in the past couple of centuries. It wasn't likely, if for no other reasons that it'd mean something had gone _right_ which didn't seem very likely from either his perspective or that of the rest of the Inner Sphere.

* * *

Tamar Orbit  
Flagdeck, SLS _Hood_

"Let me make myself clear, General Steiner. I have more than a thousand dead, I _probably_ have ten times that dead. They were killed without warning using a weapon that utilized Kearny-Fuchida principals. Such weapons were banned, sir, under Ares Conventions II—I suggest careful reading of the section _Other Weapons of Mass Destruction_ and its annexes. I am fully within my rights to conduct a reprisal against the battery that attacked us, using any weapon— _any_ weapon at all, Sir—that is at my disposal. That I choose not to do so is out of concern for the civilians whose lives have been placed in jeopardy by the planetary government's illegal actions. That concern will not save them if I decide that ground-battery continues to remain a clear, present, and _illegal_ danger to my people."

General Winters glared at the other officer in his comm.-screen. "If any of your dropships make a move that looks even _remotely_ hostile I will order Admrial Murakama to turn it into very tiny pieces. Am I understood?"

"You are, General," Steiner said carefully. "And I regret—"

Winters slapped the line closed and the screen went dark. "New message, wide-beam broadcast."

"Sir."

He looked at the communications officer that was assigned to him. "There's an incoming transmission for you from Marshal Joy Corelli, she's the CO of the 26th Lyrans, and Precentor Lawrence Urrutia."

"Put it through."

The screen split. On one side was a slight, trim woman with the kind of face that needed a broken nose and a couple of scars to look complete. Fortunately hers had been and there were, and she wore a field uniform with little more than rank insignia. In his experience there were exactly three types of people who only wore rank insignia: those who didn't have any other insignia, those who were Intelligence fields and were trying to be either intimidating or anonymous, and those for whom such decorations had ceased to be important. Winters was one of the latter himself when he could get away with it, and this woman looked like she was another member of the same school.

The man on the other half of the screen wore a white uniform with a stylized version of the Communications Ministry logo surrounded by a red halo with a capital 'E' inside of it.

"General Winters, I protest your blatant and illegal violation of the sovereignty of the Federated Commonwealth," the woman began.

"Save your protests, Marshal," Winters cut her off. "I have just been attacked by surface fire, _illegal_ surface fire, from a planet I was informed by no less than a co-chief of state—the co-chief of _your_ state, to be precise—was friendly. Surface fire that originated at _your_ HPG station, Precentor, if my understanding of the role your…organization fills is correct."

"Don't be ridiculous, General," said the man, presumably Precentor Urrutia. "ComStar is a neutral power. Our HPG stations have little more than self-defense forces assigned. Certainly they do not have any strategic or ground-to-space weapons."

"I didn't say we were attacked by a ground-based naval PPC or other conventional weapon. We were attacked by the generator itself," Winters said coolly.

"HPGs aren't weapons," Corelli said.

"They can transmit a focused electro-magnetic burst capable of frying even hardened electronics. Would you care to speculate on the effects of such a burst upon the mag-bottles of a functioning fusion plant?"

Corelli glanced to the side, obviously at her own connection to the Precentor. "Precentor, is this true?"

"Of course not," he said angrily. "Hyperpulse generators can't fire lasers—"

"He didn't say it did, Precentor," Corelli said in a very carefully neutral voice.

"Fine, in _theory_, if something were to get in it way, an active HPG transmission could cause some potentially serious disruption of electronics. But it would have to literally stumble into its path. The generators aren't built with the kind of tracking and training systems needed to make them weapons."

"And it's so very difficult to target a ship that has entered a completely predictable parking orbit?" Winters asked.

Corelli started to reply, but a slashing motion made her pause.

"I am not going to debate matters with you, Marshall, Precentor. I _am_ going to land my troops, and I _will_ secure a planetary beachhead, local government facilities, and the hyperpulse generator. I will _remain_ in control of those things until such time as I am satisfied that they no longer represent a threat. In the mean time, if any of your troops leave their present encampments and garrisons I will take it as a threat and respond with all due force.

"Right now it appears I was brought to this system under false pretenses. Rest assured, Lady, Gentleman, I _will_ find out who did this, _why_ they did it, and see that justice is served, up to and including reprisal strikes if I must. If you desire a quick, peaceful resolution, you will encourage your forces and the local populace to cooperate. Otherwise, be prepared to face the gravest of consequences." Something very close to a growl crept into his voice, "you will comply, because if you do not I will strand you on this rock and leave you to the wolves, after placing message beacons transmitting my sensor records of the attack on _Birkenhead_, so that they know what kind of greeting to expect.

"I doubt you will enjoy their response."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Kerensky Cluster, Roche  
Cyrus Elam Training Complex  
Base Infirmary  
Date: Unknown

Atalanta opened her eyes, groaning softly as light pouring through a window assaulted her optic nerves and she instantly shut them again.

"Welcome back, Star Commander."

She opened her eyes again, blinking against the grainy crust that had formed. A cool, damp cloth was wiped against them and the blurriness faded.

"Thanks," she said, or at least tried to. Her dry mouth and cracked lips made is sound more like 'Dnxsxs.' A glass straw was pressed to her lips and she took slow sips, swirling the tepid water around her mouth to rehydrate tender tissue.

"Thanks," she said again.

"Do you recognize me, Star Commander?"

Atalanta blinked up at the person standing by her bed and instantly tried to snap to attention. The hospital bed greatly resisted her movement and her body shrieked in protest. "Aff, Loremaster, I do," she said formally, her voice still raw.

"We very nearly lost you," the Loremaster said disapprovingly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I punched out," Atalanta said, forcing herself to meet the Loremaster's eyes as she made the shameful admission.

"A wise choice, considering the damage you had incurred and the weight of metal you were facing," the Loremaster said dryly, "This after having defeated two mechs when the second candidate initiated a melee, and pounded two more into scrap and inflicted damage upon the fifth. Warrior Eryk managed to kill the only the first one you had lamed, if you are interested."

She nodded politely, but in truth had not been interested in the slightest. Eryk was as close as the Clans came to being a mediocre warrior. Adequately talented, but far too reliant on his extraordinary good luck and not enough time spent practicing his gunnery. She did not say this though.

"Your parachutes only partially deployed," the Loremaster said. "And then your Sibko Instructor demonstrated execrable judgment in giving you necrosia."

"It is tradition for Warriors who pass their Trial of Position to be given necrosia as soon as practicable," Atalanta said defensively. Instructor Gavarn had never belittled them the way some Trueborn Instructors would belittle Freebirth Sibkos. Had he pushed them harder than he would Trueborns? She was not certain, but she liked to think so.

"'As soon as practicable' does _not_ mean 'on their way to an emergency trauma center,'" the Loremaster said bitingly. "In this case, however, is it probably well he had for you are one of the rare individuals who have adverse reactions to necrosia."

"Loremaster?" she asked cautiously.

"It nearly killed you." The Loremaster pulled a chair over to Atalanta's bedside and settled down into it. "Now, tell me what you saw."

* * *

I had never seen the chamber before with my eyes.

I never expected to see the chamber with my eyes.

I still recognized it. I had seen it during training in various holos.

I would never be allowed into the chamber, though.

No freebirths were allowed.

It was the Great Chamber where all the Khans of the Clans would meet in Council.

I stood in the center of the chamber, with the tables arranged around me. Twenty tables, each draped with a banner with the colors and crest of a Clan. Behind each table sat two of that Clan's totem animal, giants for their species, for each was at least as large as a tall human and each wore the accoutrements of a Warrior.

I knew them to be the Clan Founders.

I looked behind me and found another figure, human this time, but dressed in black robes that hid his figure. A black hood and mask hid his face.

I knew him to be Ethan Moreau.

I turned to the front of the chamber.

Seated in the ilKhan's chair was the Founder. Neither aged nor a youth, but a Warrior in his prime wearing the dress uniform of a Wolf Lord.

"Do you know who I am, Goliath Scorpion named Atalanta?" he asked me.

"Aff," I said. "You are the ilKhan, Nicholas Kerensky. The Founder of the Clans."

"Do you know where you are, Goliath Scorpion named Atalanta?" he asked me.

"Aff," I said. "I am in the Great Council Chamber in the Hall of Khans."

"Do you know who these are that are gathered here, Goliath Scorpion named Atalanta?" he asked me.

"Aff," I said. "They are the Founders of all the Clans."

They stood then, and in pairs starting with the Khans of Goliath Scorpion they approached me.

When the last had left the Founder rose from his chair, "Remember their words well, but tell no one of what they have told you until the time is at hand."

Then the First Loremaster, Ethan Moreau, placed his hand upon my shoulder and the Great Council Chamber disappeared.

The next I saw I was in a desert at night. I recognized the stars and knew myself to be in the Spiked Heart Desert on Babylon. With me again was the First Loremaster wrapped in concealing robes. The night was bitter, and there was a great fire we sat by to protect us against the cold.

"Remember," the First Loremaster told me, then wandered alone into the night.

As I sat a Goliath Scorpion wandered out of the night.

I greeted it, and suddenly it was no long a Goliath Scorpion but the Founder who sat with me where the Goliath Scorpion had been. He was younger than in the version in the Council Chamber, and wore a simple MechWarrior field uniform, unadorned with Clan, unit, or rank patches or insignia.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"You are the Founder of the Clans," I replied.

He laughed.

"I am a Warrior," he said. "And I have come as a Warrior to speak with a Warrior."

"Then speak, Founder, and I shall listen and take heed."

"Nicholas," he said.

I bowed. "Then speak, Nicholas, I shall listen and take heed."

"First, I say that you must learn to adapt to the times. Things are not as they have always been, and will not always be as they are now. This I have seen in my journeys. You must learn to make part of yourself that what makes you stronger, and discard that which leaves you vulnerable. You must help those that refuse to change or they will die…and with them will die your Clan."

I was shocked. Of all the things I had expected to hear, this was the least. Emotions roiled through me like a barrage of missiles, a thousand questions like shard of armor splintered by laser fire. Shock, surprise, fear… Goliath Scorpion, die? How could such a thing happen? We are _Clan_. We understand our history—and thus ourselves—better than any other. We know Our strength is _true_ strength. A strength not of numbers of OmniMechs and potency of weapons, but in knowing both ourselves and our foes. A strength that came from knowing where we had come from, and where we were journeying too. It was a subtle, potent strength that the other Clans neither had nor understood. What could possibly defeat us?

"What pride," spoke Nicholas, his voice dripping with contempt. "What _arrogance_!

"Do you not remember why my Father led us from the worlds of our birth and brought us here? It was to protect the denizens of the Inner Sphere. It was to keep them from using our might to destroy themselves, just as I created the Clans to prevent us from destroying each other.

"We do not march forth with bared swords as Conquerors. We are meant to _serve_, not rule. We do not subjugate those who come under our sway. We are meant to guard, not oppress. We do not sit and judge the rights and wrongs of those before us. It is our Duty and our Honor to return the universe to a peaceful state of prosperity, not condemn it to an eternity of darkness.

"We protect those who are unable to protect themselves. _This_ is our highest calling. Strip away all pretenses and it is our _only_ calling!"

I trembled. His gaze was not stern. There was no reproof in his voice. But he spoke with such intensity my heart quailed.

Yet I could not remain silent. I was Warrior-trained and proven, with two kills—mayhap three, I was uncertain of the _Summoner_—in my Trial of Position. How then was I supposed to be a guardian?

"Nicholas," I said, "the Clans are made up of Laborers and Technicians, of Merchants and Scientists, this is true. But the heart of the Clan is its fierce warriors. How can we be expected to protect when we have spent a lifetime in the heat—in the flame, the furnace, and forge—of battle and conflict? When have we ever known peace? Even in the days of the great Star League there were places where warriors were fighting and dying. How can we achieve peace? It is not the kind of thing that a Warrior seeks, nor is it something that I believe we can all live with."

"There is always a price for peace, Atalanta. Often it is a price you will not know until you have paid it. Frequently it will be a price that will seem to be too much to bear. Such is the way of things. And yet however great the price, the reward will make it worth paying even if you never see it. Remember the duty I have just instructed you in, let it be your guide and seldom will you find it ill-advice."

His voice changed subtle. A trace of fear? I shivered and almost doubted myself at the thought, but forced myself to think it nonetheless. He no longer looked at me, but past me. As though he could stare through my flesh and peer into my thoughts, but also that be looking through me he could see the future. My future? The future of Goliath Scorpion? Of all the Clans?

I could not know.

"The Star League entrusted my Father with their defense, and so he brought us out of the Inner Sphere that the Inner Sphere may survive," he said in a soft voice. "He entrusted to me Our survival, and so I brought us out of the Pentagon Worlds and formed the Clans that we may survive. Now I in turn entrust to you, to your fellow Warriors, to your Clan, and to all the Clans, you must learn to adapt. Survival of all depends on it."

"I will remember," I assured him.

He stood, and I quickly rose to my feet.

The fire had burned low, and he stood to place it between us so that he was lit with a ruddy glow. He no longer wore the simple field uniform of a Warrior, but once more the full Wolf regalia. "Only twice more shall you drink necrosia, for if you taste it a fourth time you shall surely die. On the First occasion, search amongst my heritage. Learn that which will strengthen you and prepare you for the Test which is to come. On the Second occasion, seek amongst my Father's heritage, for in the ruins may you find a firm foundation."

* * *

Kerensky Cluster, Roche  
Cyrus Elam Training Complex  
Base Infirmary  
Date: Unknown

"And this was all of your vision?" The Loremaster asked as I finished.

"Aff," Atalanta said, "Aside from that which I was told to tell to no one."

"Until 'the time is at hand.'"

"With respect, Loremaster—"

The Loremaster waved a hand. "You believe that you will know the appropriate time when it comes. You may well be right. I will not begrudge you this, Warrior, though I will admit regret at not being able to record it and compare it to other visions. Still…"

Atalanta said nothing and the Loremaster leaned forward. "Tell me, do you know who your parents are?"

"Aff," Atalanta said uncomfortably. It was hardly the sort of question a Warrior asked, not even among Freebirths.

"And your grandparents?"

"Aff."

"How far back?"

"I know which of my… progenitors followed the Founder," Atalanta admitted, "and which did not."

The Loremaster stared at her long and hard before giving a terse nod. "Good. That leaves us with only the matter of your orders."

"My first posting?" Atalanta asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of her tone but not quite managing to do so.

"Rho galaxy. The 8th Scorpion Grenadiers have an opening for a Star Commander," the Loremaster said.

Atalanta nodded. It was hardly a prestigious posting. They had once been the honor guard of the Khans, but had been disgraced in the Ghost Bear raid on Tokasha in 2982. The raid had been a disaster and left the 8th severely mauled and Khan Mikhail Yeh dead. It was, however, still counted as an elite unit and was an excellent posting for a brand-new freebirth Warrior.

"At least those were your original orders," the Loremaster continued. "Star Colonel Vlad was impressed by the BattleROMs of your Trial of Position and has placed a bid on you."

"Seeker rights?" Atalanta asked. Most Seekers traveled alone, or with a small entourage of Bondsmen and lower castemen to provide support. Some of them, especially if they were going into another Clan's territory, would bid for additional warriors. A brand-new warrior, and especially a Freebirth, would be highly honored to accept such a position.

"Cluster duty," the Loremaster said. "Before you rush to accept, it will mean a demotion for you. He has an open slot for a Point-Second, and no seniority will be conferred."

"Understood," Atalanta said. Nominally all warriors of a given rank were equal—aside from the disparities between the Trueborn and Freebirth, of course—but there _was_ a seniority system based upon time-in-grade, past assignments and ranks held, and how well one had performed in combat. More seniority could allow a Warrior to bid for superior assignments that were more likely to lead to glory.

The 8th was a very good posting. To be requested by name by one of the Clan's ristars to fill a hole that normally would have been filled by a more experienced—and Trueborn—warrior made it a potentially outstanding posting. And the point-second was the Star Commander's tactical deputy and _usually_ responsible—Star Commanders were free to assign responsibilities as they saw fit after all—for the training of the Star, the maintenance and upkeep of the Star's combat equipment, and in charge of the support personnel assigned to the Star.

"I will accept the demotion that comes with Star Colonel Vlad's bid, Loremaster," Atalanta said.

"Star Colonel Vlad rather thought you might," the Loremaster told her with a wry gin and offered her a small data-slate. "Your orders. Upon release from the infirmary and receipt of a clean bill of health you will report to the armory and draw one _Nova_ OmniMech with a _Sierra_-configuration package and one alternative configuration package from the list assigned. Transport will be arranged to get you to Dagda, and from there to your final assignment."

* * *

Deep Space  
GSDS _Basset _(Attached, GSS _Eureka_)  
Simulator Deck

Atalanta blinked harshly as sweat stung her eyes. The remains of the enemy headquarters and the mech company that had almost managed to save it burned behind her. It had cost her three mechs and most of the armor on her _Nova_'s left side, and all that kept it from being a clean sweep was an annoyingly persistent aerospace fighter.

Now if only she could find it.

"Caleb, offset a quarter-klick east and set up for a standard ring-search anchored a half-klick to your west. Use your mag-scans as well as radar, this bird may have some advanced electronics, I will run a counter-sweep and watch for electronic emissions."

"Contact, _Rapier_ at—"

Off to the east Caleb's _Ice Ferret_ exploded.

Atalanta pivot-turned on her left foot. The _Rapier_ was an ancient model-101 with a heavy autocannon—ammo depleted by her count, but possibly modified with a larger magazine—a rack of LRMs, and coaxed ten-centimeter lasers. It had set up to rake both of the mechs in a single pass, but the distance was just far enough, the fighter was just slow enough, and Atalanta reacted just fast enough to swing her mech around to face the new threat.

Her left thumb flicked a switch and her mech disappeared behind a wall of electronic jamming. A flick of her right thumb synched the lasers in her mech's right arm together as she took the half-step required to present her mech's profile, simultaneously narrowing her silhouette and protecting her damaged left side.

The fighter launched its missiles first and the anti-missile system in her right torso whined in response. Several got through but instead of the crackle of impact-fused high-explosive armor-piercing warheads, there was a muted _whump_ and they left her mech coated with an incendiary substance. Not the normal inferno-juice either, Atalanta noted as sensors provided a preliminary chemical breakdown. Weapon status lights flashed red as her heat index rocketed up and the weapon computer followed its presets, automatically taking them offline one by one to prevent her from over-heating the reactor and causing a shutdown.

The _Rapier _roared overhead. The monster autocannon failed to fire so at least her count was accurate, and the electronic jamming—or possibly battle damage to the pilot's targeting system—caused both lasers to come up short. It was, however, already banking around for another pass and the substance on her mech's armor was continuing to burn.

Fortunately the enemy command staff had parked right next to the same river that their supply unit was using as a source for its reverse-osmosis water purification units. One bounding leap took her mech-shoulder-deep into the river and spiked her heat well into the red zone.

Atalanta slapped out a hand in a purely instinctive gesture that over-rode the reactor shutdown. The incendiary continued to burn in the water, but she had sought the river only partially on the off-chance that it could extinguish or wash off the blazing substance. Instead she took her left hand off its control stick to a secondary-systems panel, the kind used during startup for system-checks and use by maintenance techs and otherwise generally ignored. A stabbing finger brought up the heatsinks located in her mech's lower legs. A second job initiated a coolant flush.

Glacial runoff was flash-boiled as the superheated coolant was pumped from her machine. Even with the burning gel covering the _glacis_ of her mech, Atalanta's heat index dropped precipitously.

The enemy fighter quivered slightly and Atalanta smiled grimly. No doubt the pilot knew approximately where she was, but the steam provided both optic and thermal camouflage and _her_ radar, unaffected by her own jamming, had the _Rapier_ solidly locked up.

She would only have one shot. Even with her heat down, the gel was still burning so it would not _stay_ down for long. Worse, with the coolant flushed from her mech's system there was no longer an effective way to remove heat-buildup. If she missed, she would have to wait for her mech to air-cool, submerge it entirely, or risk fusing the lasing chamber…or blowing the reactor plant.

Again the pilot opened with a missile launch and Atalanta was only barely in time to override the anti-missile system before it cut loose. _Dumb-firing her missiles, _nice_ trick_, she thought admiringly. They had little chance of hitting her, but had they provoked the AMS the defensive fire could have given away her exact position.

Lasers stabbed into the steam cloud, but did little besides boiling off still more water.

Then it was her turn.

The targeting bracket flashed red and her finger gently stroked the trigger. The computer decided that her heat index was still below the preprogramed threshold limit and so it didn't need to drop any of the lasers out of the firing group. Twelve six-centimeter lasers reached out for the fighter and slammed into its belly as it flashed by.

Armor shattered and was ripped away by the airstream. Something flared deep inside of the fighter as it slowly banked away from her. Then it seemed to stagger in air. The engine coughed and components were ejected out of the exhaust. The pilot tried to hold her fighter together for a few seconds more, then gave up and ejected.

"Final pilot is ejecting, simulation terminated," Atalanta announced as the simulator darkened. She unhooked the coolant suit, bio-med monitor leads, neuro-helm jack, and communication gear with the negligent ease of purely habitual motions, already mentally reviewing the simulation. In particular she had a few blistering comments for Second Star Two—One had been declared a casualty for this sim and had helped run the Op-Force—about the difference between 'recon with force' and 'raid.'

She finished unstrapping and undogged the hatch which opened with a pneumatic hiss, this time she managed to duck the strut that was did not existent in her mech but was in the simulator.

"Captain Steele," she said, offering a salute to the commander of the JumpShip as though his appearance in the mech-simulator bay of the DropShip was an everyday occurrence.

"Major," he said.

Atalanta hid a smile. She could usually get her way sooner or later where her little foibles were concerned, but Manfred Steele had held out longer than most. As in most things she did, it served a double purpose. Not only did it pay homage to an ancient naval tradition, but should their contingency plan need to be put into effect it would help if the terms of address already felt natural. She wondered idly about the potential benefits of crossing a pilot-genome with her own before disregarding the idea entirely. Steele was Trueborn through and through. He had the flexibility required for this mission, and really that was all that was required of him. Asking anything more would be stretching his honor, possibly to the breaking point, and in any case she could hardly afford to be sidelined. The mission was already a low-order of success at it was.

"Has something happened, Captain?" she asked, taking off her gloves and tucking them into her belt before reaching up to unsnap the chinstrap of her neuro-helm.

"You could say that," he said, passing her a data-slate. "A message from our Khan."

"For us?" she asked, tucking the helm under her left arm before taking the slate.

"Yes," he said tersely. "It includes recent Clan Wolf after-action reports that you may find interesting."

Atalanta thumbed the electronic tab and skimmed down the e-pages. "A unit calling itself the 'Third Cavalry Regiment' stopped the Wolf saKhan cold on Planting."

"Most of the regiment performed a fighting retreat that drew off most of Beta Galaxy," Steele said, giving the highlights and in doing so let her know that he had already read the message. "One major, a 'Roland Talbot', dropped a significant force of BattleMech's in Beta Galaxy's rear area and was able to capture its DropShips. The saKhan was forced to turn over a considerable amount of military hardware as ransom for losing the Trial."

"An Inner Sphere military unit actually responded to a batchall appropriately?"

"It took everyone by surprise."

Atalanta shook her head. "As it should, but we are surprised for the wrong reason." She found the list and raised an eyebrow. "'Considerable,' is certainly one word for it. This is a light cluster's worth of mechs, fighters, and battle armor."

"Not to mention the DropShips."

"Not to mention," Atalanta agreed. "Roland…a good name. That is the one we are after, the knight in my vision."

"You are certain?"

"The _Song of Roland_ is a famous saga, well over two-millennia old. To be confronted with visions of a knight, and now to find a prominent warrior named for a knight…"

"It could be just coincidence."

"A moment, Captain," Atalanta said after a brief pause. "Tanis, tell me what would have happened had my lasers missed?"

The pilot who had been running the last of the aerospace fighters in the OpFor frowned, then shrugged slightly. "I would have flown through the steam cloud. By the time I would have arrived it would not have been substantial enough to significantly degrade flight characteristics, though the heat-transfer may have been unpleasant to bare."

"I once saw a Warrior in an old _Woodsman_ use his lasers to super-heat a geyser pool, causing it to erupt. Just in time for a pilot to crash a brand new _Jengiz_ into a column of water at what was a very…terminal velocity," Atalanta said.

"In this case however, you are correct—at least so far as the effects of flying through the steam are concerned. You would, however, between the steam and my ECM, have been effectively blind for at least a half-second, including time necessary for your sensors to recover and your canopy to clear, perhaps even longer. There are a great many things your enemies could do in a half-second, Tanis. Most of them would have unfortunate consequences for you. Remember that."

"Aff," the pilot said. "I will."

"Blind-firing your missiles in an effort to provoke my automated missile-defense system into revealing my position was a clever tactic," Atalanta continued, "though at the velocity you were traveling you would not have had much time to make the shot had the ruse been successful."

"No, Major," the pilot admitted. "But it would not have given you much time to relocate either."

"Have you ever made such a shot, either for real or in training?" Atalanta asked curiously.

"No," Tanis said. "It was the first time I even attempted it. Anti-missile systems are not common."

"Fair enough. Write up a simulation package for it, fighters, mechs, and battle armor. Adaptable environments, various terrains… When you have completed that, I want you to gather a small working party to discuss ways that anti-missile systems can be used. Explore ways we can use them to enhance mission success, and also ways that opponents—both Clan and Inner Sphere—may employ them and how we can best exploit that use."

"Yes, Major," Tanis said._ At least it is not another historical analysis_, she thought to herself.

Atalanta ignored the unvoiced sigh. By now all of her people, both Warriors and service/support techs, were used to—or at least familiar with—her habit of handing out these 'extra' assignments to help keep them sharp.

"Caleb," Atalanta continued, "The remainder of the simulator debrief is postponed. Reschedule it for…thirteen hundred. We shall make a working lunch of it."

The Warrior nodded a reply and led the rest of the warriors from the simulator bay.

Atalanta tucked the data-slate away. "Very well, Captain."

Steele watched, hiding his amusement as the ground-pounders filed out. "Are you a Star Captain, or a sibko instructor?" he asked once the rest of the Warriors had filed out of the simulator compartment.

"Both, it seems. We may have a higher standard of education than most of the Clans, especially in history and in fields not related to a person's duties in general, but that does not mean that we are any more successful at making our people _think_."

"And what would you say about the other Clans?"

"That they don't _want_ to think," Atalanta said bitingly. She paused, winced, then shrugged the slip away like she would a particularly annoying biting insect.

Steele considered her for a moment. "Your comment about our, the Clans', surprise at how the 'Third Cavalry' fought. The batchall is _our_ tradition, not theirs. We are not quick to adopt their way of War, why should we expect them to be quick to adopt ours? You express surprise that this unit has, while the rest of the Clans express surprise that the remainder of the Inner Sphere armies have not. That they fight in an honorless fashion." He paused, her expression had not changed, and yet somehow it had become slightly disapproving.

"The rest of the Clans are surprised that they fight in a fashion that _we deem_ to be without honor," he amended.

"Better, Captain," she said. "To be able to recognize your prejudices for what they are, and be able to set them aside to evaluate another culture honestly is no small thing."

"I still think Tanis had a point with that historical analysis you made her do," he said, unable to come up with a better response. She really did make him feel like he was back in his sibko, he thought to himself and wondered briefly if she had ever served as an instructor. It was possible, he decided, but not likely that a Clan would assign a Freebirth instructor as a way of goading particularly young Truebirths who had yet to realize that life was not as neat and orderly as it was in the sibko.

"Which part?" Atalanta asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Her conclusion. Yes, Spruance had to cover Midway from invasion, but his _primary_ responsibility was to inflict damage upon a superior enemy fleet. He could have advanced upon the enemy instead of retiring east and done both."

"And what would he have inflicted these casualties with?" she asked in reply. "Losses to USN, Marine Crops, and Army aircraft already exceeded forty percent. Aside from the two carriers with depleted aircrews he had just six cruisers and nine destroyers, while the IJN order of battle included more than ten battleships. His two flattops were the only ones available in the Pacific until _Saratoga_ was able to finish provisioning and its air-group and escort could be organized. If he lost them that would have left the USN with that one carrier until more could be transferred from the Atlantic.

"Spruance had been sailing closer to Japanese all day and he feared a night-attack by surface ships—the very kind of attack Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku attempted to engage in that evening, A worthy fear for the Japanese would prove beyond a doubt during the Solomon Island Campaign that they were masters of the gun-action night-fight. Under those conditions, any losses he could be reasonably expected to inflict would have been minimal and among lesser-effective ship-types. Balanced against the possible loss of his carriers, and the fact that it would leave Midway exposed were he destroyed, he decided the risk was not worth the possible gains and decided to call it a day.

"And realistically he had already dealt more damage than the IJN was capable of recouping. The loss of four fleet carriers was crippling. The whole reason Japan went to war in the first place was for resources. The need to build replacements took resources they could ill-afford to spend and prevented them from increasing the number of those ships. Even worse, while they had carrier-trained and qualified pilots—or could train and qualify more with relative ease though at the cost of decreasing combat efficiency—they could _not_ so easily replace the maintenance and deck-handling crews that went down with their lost carriers, which would have a disastrous impact on their air-fleet efficiency for the remainder of the war."

"Roland Talbot was seen again not a week later at Ridderkirk, this time as a lieutenant-colonel and commanding the 1st Squadron of the Fourth Cavalry Regiment," Manfred Steele said, abandoning the lesson for business. "This unit and another calling itself the Seventh Cavalry Regiment—though I should add that all three 'cavalry' units have displayed very different TO&Es—fought a delaying action that distracted the Lionhearts long enough for the regimental combat team garrisoning the planet to evacuate the planet and destroy much of the equipment and facilities they were forced to leave behind."

"Impressive," Atalanta said evenly. "They must have refitted their WarShips and JumpShips with Lithium-Fusion batteries."

"That they refitted across the board is an assumption."

Atalanta looked up from the 'slate.

"The _Texas_ and two _Potempkins_ that jumped in late," Steele said. "Obviously they had to jump in from Planting. A lithium-fusion battery only provides a single additional charge for the KF-drive. If they were left in the first system it was likely because they were assigned to guard vessels that were still charging their drives. The Task Force allowed itself to become split, and one portion exhausted its batteries jumping to Ridderkirk instead of charging their drive and all vessels jumping together."

"A point, definitely a point," Atalanta agreed. "Still he will only be delayed a few days if he remains with his original WarShips, or up to a week and a half if he waits for his entire force to consolidate. In either case we are behind him."

"But gaining ground," Manfred said.

"An illusion," Atalanta disagreed. "We rely upon Clan Wolf for much information, and they upon Comstar. The inherent inefficiency in the system alone would lessen any chance we have of catching him. Coupled with the fact that we have little knowledge of who he is, where he is going, or what his and his comrades' objectives are… No, Captain. We cannot catch him from behind, so we must wait in a place where he shall be forced to come to us."

Manfred considered this for a moment. "Tamar?"

"Aff," Atalanta agreed. "Tamar would likely be little more than a temporary stop, though passing through that system would be logical. If we make straight-line maximum-range jumps into deep space and charge via the reactor, can we arrive before them?"

"I do not care for the stress that would place on the drive-core," Steele said. "But yes, if we do as you say and this fleet anchors itself to its slowest vessels then we shall easily arrive before them."

"Let us try Tamar, then," Atalanta said. "If he has not arrived we shall wait as long as we can make our cover hold. If we miss him, then baring a strong indication of his next intended destination I propose we divert to our secondary mission.

"You do not agree, Captain?"

"It is not my place to agree or disagree," Manfred Steele said. "My Khan instructed me that you are our mission commander."

"I make it a point to listen to my subordinates, unlike certain senior officers—especially in those in certain clans—who react with disdain to any idea they have not personally thought of. As the senior officer on our expedition I highly value any insights you may have."

"Very well, I shall speak plainly," Manfred said. "Hunting pirates and bandits, and even shadowing a WarShip or task force, is one thing. Without knowing your true objectives, however, there is little advice I can provide."

"Knowledge is a very dangerous thing, Star Commodore," Atalanta said at length, using his proper rank for the first time since their arrival in the Inner Sphere. "I am sure you have seen enough of my trinary's simulations to know that something distinctly unusual is going on."

Manfred nodded slightly. The traditional rivalry between a ship's embarked fighter component, and those belonging to the 'ground pounders', was noticeably lacking. In fact both fighter crews interfaced seamlessly and neither displayed any evidence of the limited, highly ground-attack oriented, skill set that was a trademark of far too many Goliath Scorpion pilots. There was also the issue of the individual latitude and initiative displayed in her subordinates. Goliath Scorpion Galaxy Commanders had a tendency to micromanage their forces—including their assigned naval battle groups, much to the disgust of the Star Admirals that commanded them—which usually put a damper on initiative. That was not the case here, quite the reverse actually. Nor did her Warriors seemed locked into the strict upholding of _zellbrigen_—past that even of some Falcons and Jaguars—that was the norm for Goliath Scorpion Warriors. And despite what her 'official' Table of Organization showed, the _real_ organization he had seen frequently used in the simulators was something quite different.

"Today's simulation aside, the organization and tactics you utilize conform with those of most Inner Sphere militaries," he said. "I assume you are practicing these in the event that you need to act surreptitiously on the ground, though you will need to acquire Spheroid equipment to do so."

"Among other things," Atalanta murmured.

"You plan to activate our secondary cover? As…mercenaries," he said, forcing his voice to not show any of the disgust he felt at the thought.

"Appearing to be merchants is an excellent cover for moving around behind the lines without drawing attention, Captain," Atalanta said. "But there may well need to be a military reason for allowing us so close to our final objective, and merchants—especially the barely breaking even ones that we are pretending to be—simply will not do."

"I know this mission has been planned for some time," Steele went on. "The Snow Ravens did much of the reactivation work on _Eureka_, and that they replaced the old in-system drive, the armor, and fitted _Eureka_ with both a hyper-pulse generator and lithium-fusion battery. But I also know that other Clans provided and installed the new sensor arrays, weapon mounts, and the hanger for a light fighter star. Reading between the lines it became obvious that a great deal of effort was taken to keep any one clan from knowing the extent of the modifications. Including tying up one of our few major docks for at least three months to replace the fusion generators with a Star League prototype a Seeker recovered more than fifty years ago."

Atalanta raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"As to your mech," Manfred Steele continued. "I did not think that there was room for both an electronic warfare system and an anti-missile system inside of a _Nova_-prime."

"What is it you really wish to know, Captain?" she asked. "It is not about my mech, I think."

"Why do you seek this man?" he asked. "I will follow without question, because that is what my Khan asked of me and all of my crew, though it was her right to order us. But seldom have I ever known so little about my objectives, and not at all since attaining command of my first WarShip.

"Your trinary is very oddly arranged. Not even the stars match existing standards. Aff, I know," he said before she could reply, "our…secondary cover, but many of your machines have also displayed none-standard characteristics or configurations in simulation. And your personnel have an unusually high number of freebirths and those considered on the verge of _solahma_ if not there already."

"_I_ am a freebirth and well past the verge of _solahma_," Atalanta said dryly.

Steele paused. Being _solahma_ might not be the last thing a Warrior would joke about, but it was near the bottom of the list, and it was on the short list of things that _no_ Warrior would admit to being. Yet his mission commander had just done both and he wondered if he had just insulted her.

As if sensing his quandary she said in a formal tone that she used as rarely as she did his proper rank: "no insult was meant or taken, Star Commodore. I simply have yet to find a Warrior deserving of the Honor of killing me in battle and I refuse to be killed by anyone less. You were saying?"

Manfred Steele nodded in understanding. He doubted whether any other Warrior—especially one approaching _solahma_—would voice it quite so openly, but it was a perfectly understandable attitude. Of course, _most_ Warriors would choose to die by the hand of a lesser Warrior rather than grow old. "I said that the…nature of the personnel making up your trinary was…odd," he said. "And then there is the nature of my ship and my crew."

"They are not dissatisfactory, quineg?"

"Neg," Steele said crossly. Quite the reverse, his ship was far more powerful than he had expected when first informed of its class, and despite their…oddities his crew was one of the better ones he had served with. _No_, he mentally chastised himself, _not 'one of the better ones.' The _best. But it did not change the fact that his Chief Engineer was a Scientist who had been caste down to a Technician, and that his tactical department actually _did_ have a Scientist who was in charge of his ship's sensors. A Merchant as his supply officer was not terribly unusual, but his flight-ops manager was a _laborer_ of all things.

And there were the subtler things as well. How this ship and crew were incomprehensibly _right_, somehow.

"The Loremaster and I had a wager when you would finally break down and ask. It appears I have now lost it."

Manfred Steele said nothing.

"How much time do you have?" She asked.

"As much as necessary," he said.

"Very well," she said again, but held up a warning hand. "Be warned, some of the answers you would be more comfortable not having. Some of them," she said, dropping her tone to convey the significance of what she was telling him, "are Clan secrets. Secrets known only to the Khans and the Loremaster, and some not even known to them. Are you certain that you still wish to know?"

"Aff," Manfred said. "Yes I am."

Atalanta did not speak for some time, but at last she nodded. "Very well, Captain, come with me."

She led him from the training deck down to the mechbay where a short command had the techs quickly leaving. She floated across the bay with a deft kick, the kind of habitual ease acquired only after much exposure to micro-gravity and that not even training could instill. They floated across to where her _Nova_ loomed. It had been painted a glossy black with gold trim to give it a disturbingly chitinus appearance. There was a Goliath Scorpion identifier on its right breast, but was otherwise unadorned.

She pulled herself across the mech from handhold to handhold lest she go drifting away, and did not stop until she reached the access hatch to the cockpit.

Manfred Steele climbed inside, the usual cramped conditions of a Clan mech cockpit made worse by the presence of two people. He started to pull the hatch shut when a cloaked figure pulled itself into the hatch. He stilled, forcing himself not to betray his surprise.

The figure did not speak. To the best of Steele's knowledge no one had ever heard him speak. Atalanta's Harbinger wore long, flowing black robes with a deep hood and black mask to hide his face. Without a doubt the role of Harbinger was the rarest of various camp followers and support personnel that a Seeker could draw upon for a quest. They were artisans and chroniclers, but those that Steele had found when he had checked the records filled that position openly. If anyone had seen Atalanta's outside of his—her, its?—robes, or if he even had a _name_, Steele had never heard of it. Instead it lurked in dark corners and ghosted along in the wake of the Seeker like a dire portent.

And that was when it was noticed.

All too often the figure slipped into a shadow or a corner and went entirely unnoticed even by those who should have known better.

Manfred Steele found himself using the lap buckle to hold himself in the command couch while Atalanta wedged herself into a perch on the bank of controls and monitors before him The Harbinger slid into the narrow space behind the command couch. Atalanta quickly sealed the hatch, powered up the mech, disengaged the umbilicals connecting it to the DropShip, and had the atmosphere in the bay evacuated.

"All right, Manfred," she said. "We are as secure as I can make us, so let us talk."

Steele paused, it was the first time she had addressed him by name and not his position or Bloodname. The first time that she had ever addressed him as anything other than 'Captain' in the hearing of someone else, at least so far as he was aware.

"Our official orders are to recon the Inner Sphere, posing as a tramp freighter. Our secondary mission is to make contact with the Wolf Dragoons and retrieve the Codices and Giftake of the Goliath Scorpion Warriors who accompanied the Dragoons."

"I am fully aware of our official orders," Manfred said testily.

She nodded.

"What I want to know is what it is that we are after. Our _true_ mission. Why do you have us pursuing this man, this…knight?"

Atalanta had spent not a little time considering just how to tell him. Many people on board knew parts of their mission, but even they were limited to their small part of it. Several new broader topics, such as the details of _Eureka_'s refit or how the crew—and ground force, for that matter—had been recruited. There had only ever been three people who had been informed of every detail, and two of them were dead. A few people knew more and still lived, but she could count them with fingers to spare.

Finally she decided to just drop the biggest shock she could and go from there.

"I am pursuing him because Operation Revival as it currently stands will fail," she said.

"Outrageous!" Manfred cried. He actually forgot where he was for a moment and tried to leap to his feet, but the lap belt prevented it. "We are too powerful. No force the Inner Sphere can field can stand before the Clans. Look at how quickly Clan Wolf moves, how many worlds it has conquered."

"Sit," she snapped. "Do you have any idea how impossibly big the Inner Sphere is? How many worlds it contains? Do you honestly expect that every soldier in the successor states will simply roll over like a dog before an angry wolf when we take Terra? I assure you they will not. They will force us to garrison every planet, every moon, every miserable space station, habitat, and asteroid mine until the cream of our warriors are bled out on the rocks.

"It takes time for the scientists to create the next generation of Warriors, time for them to mature in the iron wombs, _years_ of training. We have neither the time nor the capacity in all the Clans to create the sheer numbers we would require simply to garrison each world. And if we did we would not have the capacity to insure the same quality of training in our Warriors that we have today. Were those not problems enough, we would not have the capacity to support them, in material, mechs, battle armor, weapons, ammunition, or to simply _transport_ them.

"The Great Council, or at least the crusader-minded Khans, has convinced our warriors that all it will take is for us to land on Terra, proclaim the Star League Reborn, and the people of the Inner Sphere will bow down and hail us heroes and saviors. Why should they? They have been conquering each other without pause for the better part of three centuries. Why should they see us as anything but another conqueror, especially with the example of Turtle Bay?"

Manfred's anger left him in a sudden rush. The disgraceful episode had been carried out by a different Clan with very different philosophies, but it had been carried out by another of aerospace fighter pilot stock and he felt a certain amount of unreasonable yet nevertheless real guilt by association. And…she was right. There were not enough clusters in the toumens of all the Clans to put a garrison on each inhabitable world.

He doubted there were enough trinaries and binaries to do so.

"Do you have any concept of the sheer numbers in the Inner Sphere militaries?" she inexorably pressed on. "Any one of them has as many regiments as all the Clans together have clusters. Most of them have a great many more. Even if we kill a hundred of their soldiers for every casualty we take, a thousand, _ten-thousand_ of them for every casualty, we will be wiped out. And _that_ is as things currently stand. Do you think that they might not be pressing their scientists to create new weapons? That their strategists and tacticians are not designing new strategies and tactics? That their recruiting and training facilities are not expanding? Do you not think that if pressed far enough that they might resort to the use of nuclear weapons? They have in the past. Now they follow the Ares Conventions because they must, it is a matter of survival, but we have already broken those ancient laws, quiaff?

"If we do not change, and change soon, the Inner Sphere will be the Clans' grave. The Founder warned me of this in my first vision though I did not understand. I think the Loremaster at the time did, but I never had the opportunity to ask."

"I…you cannot mean that there is no hope," he said softly.

"No, there is hope," Atalanta said. "Even now the Inner Sphere starts to unite. For the first time a centuries they start to reach for the Glory of the Star League. Their research centers are advancing rapidly, the Successor Lords are working together instead of fighting. They are united in a common purpose. Our downfall. Maybe they can delay us, possibly they can destroy us.

"In a few short years the ilKhan will have succeeded in reforging the Star League, but only because we will have been the fire, the anvil, and the hammer that has made it so. We will be the tools that make it, not the instrument itself. The Star League remade is our true objective, not conquest, our own fates are immaterial to our goals. But the ilKhan cannot fathom such a thing. To have the Star League without _us_ in control is anathema to too many warriors. If the Crusaders, if _we_ cannot have the Star League as _we_ see the Star League, then we will destroy it, if we can, so that we can remake it in _our_ image."

"You do not think it possible that we could win?" Manfred asked, but his tone made the question a statement.

"Define victory, Captain," Atalanta answered anyway. "If you mean it the way the ilKhan does, then I see very little hope. If Clan Wolf were to become the ilClan, and Ulric Kerensky ilKhan, then perhaps—_perhaps_, Manfred—he could pull everything together without it all collapsing into the very kind of war that the Great Father left the Inner Sphere to avoid in the first place! Whether or not he could hold it together long enough for it to become seld-sustaining, I do not know. I _am_ certain that Leo Showers will do all he can to prevent that from happening."

"You seek to foster this 'hope,' to turn it upon the Clans?" Manfred asked. As soon as he started to ask he knew it wasn't the answer, but felt compelled to ask anyway.

"No," she said gently, without the anger he expected from someone so insulted. "Yet we too represent a hope, a different hope, yet one nonetheless."

She felt silent, and for minutes that threatened to stretch into eternity Manfred could not bring himself to break it. But Atalanta said nothing further, and at last he could wait no longer.

"What is our mission, then?" he asked.

"Our mission?" she repeated in surprise. "Star Commodore, our mission is nothing less than those entrusted to our forbearers and Clan Founders by the Great Father and the Founder themselves! Our mission is to protect the people of the Inner Sphere, to do all we can to spare its peoples the horrors of war, to promote peace and the prosperity of its denizens, and to bring about the return of the Star League. A pure Star League, with all of the glories and greatness of its predecessor, but none of that which was base or corrupt.

"It is to _this_ we have sworn our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. It is _this_ that I Seek. To do any less would be to fail in the Charge _They_ have given to us. It is not for our sakes' we fear failure, but what it means for the sake of the people we would fail. To be unworthy of the sacred trust our forbearers have passed on to us, and to condemn the innocent to live under the pall of Death and Destruction and Terror. It is for _these_ that we dare not contemplate failure.

"I do not know how Roland Talbot fits into things. I do know, assuming I have interpreted my vision correctly, that he represents our best chance…or can at least point us in the right direction of where to go and what to do next."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Tamar

SLDS _George Murray,_ Central Mech-Bay

And Tamar City and Environs

_George Murray_ shuddered as it took damage and I swallowed harshly as Trudy's throwing it around the sky threatened to send my stomach into full revolt.

I had designated drop zones around the War College, but they must have been preparing. Who they had been preparing for, us or the woofies, was a topic for later debate. What _was_ relevant was that those preparations had included emplacing an anti-air weapon on top of what seemed to be every building.

They didn't quite all open up at once, which suggested their preparations weren't as far as long as they might have wished. If they had been, those defenses would have been networked together via dug-in fiber-optic cable in armored conduits to a tactical computer (or several, taking into account redundancy) with predictable consequences for us. Instead the defenses were engaging individual targets and there didn't seem to be any coordination other than 'open fire' and 'God shall know the Righteous.'

It took about five seconds for every weapon in the city, war college, and palace to be firing at us. It took another three for them to be joined by all the weapons in the extensive training fields that surrounded the campus.

The same fields I had intended to use as drop zones.

_Durandal_ was flashing pictures from drones and other intel assets that had been seeded into the Ops area. Some of them had been released by droppers, but a great many had been delivered by the warships in orbit that were currently venting their fury on every recon, communications, and _weather_ satellite in orbit. One image in particular caught my attention. A half-dozen soldiers had lined up and were volley-firing their rifles at our droppers. It was like watching one of those 'historical' holo-dramas of 'simpler and better' pre-space times, you know, the kind that make you want to scratch your head and ask 'people really fought like _this_?'

_Murray_ rocked.

Without the gunners Trudy had her hands full and was limited in the responses she had available. She had settled for treating the dropship like an oversized fighter, throwing it from one wild evasive maneuver and into the next. The other dropships with the rest of my squadron were doing something similar, but whether by accident or design it seemed as though the majority of the surface instillations had chosen my dropship as their primary target.

Tamar City was set into the bowl of a roughly crown-shaped valley. Seven expansive hills—in one case the slope was so gentle it went nearly unnoticed until it dropped away—ringed the city from the west and then around south to the east. An eighth hill, this one obviously man-made and much more imposing, rose to the north with the palace of the Dukes of Tamar set on top of it. Across from Hill 1 with the palace was Hill 6 that was home to the Tamar HPG station. Hill 8, the far western hill, was _the_ exclusive residential district of the city. Between Hill 6 and 7 was the campus of the War College with its expansive training fields and gunnery ranges spreading out beyond it.

From the north out to the east of the city, broken hills rose before giving way to gently rolling plains. To the west and south the ground broke into a series of rift valleys separated by ridges. The valleys were not unduly narrow, nor the ridges particularly steep, but they would be…unpleasant terrain features to have to deal with and limited approaches to the city.

I frankly hoped to avoid them entirely but I wasn't sure if that would be possible. Someone had hacked into the planetary communication net and an intelligence squeal was scrolling in a sidebar as _Durandal_ updated the tac-map. Most of it was ignorable, stuff was outside my area of operation and the like, but _Durandal_ bold-texted the stuff that concerned me. Sometime in the recent past the valleys I wanted to avoid had been co-opted by the War College for use as training fields as its expansion overwhelmed its existing grounds.

A broad heavy wall was being built around the city proper. Large swaths of it were still under construction, but the completed parts allowed for a projection of what it would look like when it was finished. A slab-sided monstrosity of poured, reinforced concrete more than twice the height of an _Atlas_ on the outside with a deep, wide ditch in front of it and approaches liberally festooned with vibrabomb minefields. Towers every couple hundred meters bristled with autocannons, lasers, and missile tubes. There was a guard-walk wide enough to parade three heavy tanks abreast and low enough to allow a mech standing on it to fire at the enemy while still providing it with a great deal of protection…at least for as long as the wall held. That probably wouldn't be for long. Fixed fortifications of the kind and on the scale that were being built hadn't been effective for centuries.

Emphasis on _hadn't been_. Maybe they had made a comeback with the general decline of tech while we were…in transit.

The red light snapped on. Instead of trundling up to the doors like we had for the more sedate landing on Ridderkirk our mechs were locked into the cradles that were normally used to move mechs around the inside of the ship without powering them up. Now they lined us up with the door without our hundred-ton machines being flung about the bay like dice inside of a cup.

The doors slid open, the spinning ground-sky was even worse than _Durandal_'s holographic representation of it, and _Durandal_ locked on a _Lucifer_ that was dogging after us. That particular fighter had been around for a couple of centuries _before_ the temporal displacement, and this one looked like it could have come off the first production run. My mech's arms were locked in the frame, but the particle cannons in its torso had clear arcs of fire as did the missile and autocannon packs in the modular bays. Before I could lock on, autocannon fire ripped from the side bays.

Trudy must have reprioritized the loading cradle queue to move the air-defense element up. I expected their fire to be off—only natural considering that the platform they were firing from redefined 'unstable'—but _Durandal_ flatly reported 98% of their fire was on target

"Not possible," I said as the fighter was literally shredded. That kind of accuracy just wasn't possible. Even shooting at target-drones on straight-line courses during training ops wouldn't touch that percentage.

"They are tied into _Murray_'s tactical net," _Durandal_ said.

"Neat." Using a dropship's sensors was old hat. I couldn't recall anyone ever actually tying into a dropper's _fire-control_, but I couldn't think of any reason why it couldn't be done.

I was still thinking about it when Trudy bucked the dropship vertical. I hung in the command couch in a way that wasn't exactly uncomfortable but was unfamiliar as hell. Then the light flashed green and I fell through the open bay door.

The drogue parachute popped open as we cleared the plasma-cones of _Murray_'s engines, and _Durandal_ was snapped vertical. We were heading for a valley two ridges over from where we were supposed to be. Then the main 'chute popped. It blossomed above me and a heavy missile tearing past nearly spilled it.

"Surface-Air Emplacement, looks like a fixed 'cudda station," Howard Arnett, who normally ran my lance so that I could orchestrate the battle, reported in. The twin OmniX-20 autocannons his _King Crab_ mounted were thundering at the ground and his 'chute was luffing dangerously in the back-scatter from the muzzle blasts.

Another missile ripped past just as there was a terrific explosion from below.

I tracked the missile going up, but the canopy of my 'chute was too big. The missile flashed through my engagement envelope and since it wasn't targeting me the LPDS ignored it. _Durandal_ did manage a radar lock so I was able to track it missing the rest of my detachment, and then disappear into one of the closing bay doors of the _George Murray_.

The dropship blew apart.

There wasn't time to do anything about it, and in any case there wasn't anything I _could_ do. I was only about forty meters up by this point so I sent the 'chute on its way and goosed _Durandal_'s jets as we dropped the rest of the way.

"AirCom," I said, calling whoever was in command of the aerial action and _Durandal_ shifting channels without my asking, "_Quarterhorse_-Six, reporting loss of dropship _George Murray_ to ground-fire."

We grounded in the middle of a Surface-Air Battery. A dozen or so prime-movers with long carrier/erector trailers attached were scattered around a command/control trailer. There were a pair of radars—far too close to the battery, one had been Howie's target and he'd gotten a secondary explosion from a round hitting a fuel bowser for the radar's portable generator—with their own control module. More generator trailers were scattered around, providing power for radars, command/control trailers, and erector-launchers, along with fuel bowsers to fuel both generators and tractors.

"Understood, _Quarterhorse_. Be advised, we're registering two emergency personal beacons active to your south-west."

I stitched the bowsers with autocannon-fire before I turned the particle cannons on the last radar. The radar array deformed as ions bombarded it and sort of crumpled. What its death lacked was more than made up for by shredding its control trailer into glowing slivers of composite with the heavy laser battery in _Durandal'_s arms.

Then Howie dropped his _King Crab_ right on top of the battery command trailer.

"Copy, AirCom, I'll designate a detachment to investigate and make pick-up. _Quarterhorse_ clear. _Durandal_, tac-map. _Saber_," I continued as the holographic interface shimmered and was replaced with a bird's-eye view of the War College at the same time as _Durandal_ switched over to my element-push, "Ten second smash, then action east. 'Berta—" Corporal Roberta Blum was in charge of the _Regulator_ element that had been on the _Murray_ "—barrage the SAM site as soon as we're clear."

Icons swarmed across the holographic map, showing my mechs, located enemy forces, terrain features, the location of the two locator beacons, and more. A sidebar of color-coded 'waterfall' graphs indicated local gravity, air-pressure, air-density, temperature, and humidity. All of which could affect the accuracy or range of one weapon or another. Another, similar, display tracked ammo expenditures, armor loss, component damage, and health of my troopers.

A remote turret popped out of the ground and a snub-barreled autocannon trained around. Worn scars on its casement showed past weapon hits. A training emplacement then, but one that had been loaded with live ammunition. Twin bars of silver light struck the emplacement as my railguns drilled it cleanly, and a secondary explosion drove the turret out of the casement as its magazine blew.

_Durandal_ tootled a kill for Curt Mortensen. After Ridderkirk I had insisted that live ammunition be kept available on board the _Murray_. I hadn't anticipated actual combat, but I _had_ hoped for some life-fire training so my mech's had full ammo bins. The massive magazines that feed the missile launchers of Curt's _Longbow_ could sustain a maximum rate of fire for over ten minutes—forever by the standards of a modern battle, but the Black Watch had never believed in running out of ammunition and it was something that the survivors of it and the 'training units' had taken to heart.

"Up the slope ladies and gents," I said. We were two valleys out from the War College and there wasn't time for us to loiter. "_Stetson_, George, take tactical command of the Squadron until I can link back up. Split a lance off, probably _Apache_-Three but whichever you think best, to go make pick-up on those E-Perbs."

"Boss, mercy-four, impact ten, shot out."

A big red_ 10_ flashed in the upper right corner of my cockpit. _9…8…_

The concept of MRSI, Multiple-Round Simultaneous Impact, where a single artillery tube could launch multiple rounds using different charges and elevations so that they all impacted at the same time had been around almost before mankind was first able to break free of Old Terra's orbit. It had been a standard feature of artillery tracks going back to before the second Russian Civil War, but it was a technique that had stubbornly refused to make the jump to a mech-based platform. A combination of an advanced stabilizer mount, a feed-system based on a concept that everyone had spent a couple centuries 'knowing' didn't work, and a liquid-bulk propellant that allowed for very precise charges had changed that—as a battery of artillery-mechs had taught an entire combined arms brigade one miserable December night.

Theoretically each tube—the _Thumper_ artillery-based mech had two—was capable of putting eight rounds onto a 10x10 meter target in the space of an eyeblink. In reality they could achieve that rate of fire—sometimes, in an emergency—but doing so stressed the feed system and (especially) the stabilizer, caused excessive wear to the not easily replaced barrel, and exhausted their ammunition magazines in just seven-and-a-half firings. It was even possible for them to achieve that sort of accuracy if they had someone to paint targets for them, otherwise the rapid-firing tended to produce enough vibration to disperse the rounds.

As it was, coupled with a little judicious shifting of point-of-impact, the sixteen rounds dropped on the SAM site were just enough to thoroughly wreck anything that had escaped destruction.

The secondaries were bright and plentiful. Fuel bowsers opened into gushes of burning petroleum distillates rather than explosions of hydrogen tanks, which spoke volumes about the equipment in use. Then the solid-fuel rocket engines of the missiles began to cook off. In some cases warheads exploded first, scattering chunks of burning rocket fuel that started fires. In others rockets were split open and flame fountained forth like giant fireworks. A couple of missiles lurched free of the erectors and skewed up into the sky out of control as their solid-fuel rocket-motors burned.

"Air Com, _Quarterhorse_-Six, be advised we have anti-air missile cook-off in my vicinity," I said. "_Dur_—"

"Locus appended."

"_Regulator_-Three, put a couple of Falcon rounds over that ridge." It was going to take a _long_ time to get used to it anticipating me like that, I just knew it was. Best to ignore it for the time being.

"Copy, _Quarterhorse_."

The Falcon round was a 'support mission' round, meant as a combat enhancer and force multiplier rather than the artillery's primary role of blowing things up. In this in joined military flares and thermo-optical occlusion rounds. Unlike those rounds, however, Falcon rounds were meant to go unnoticed by the enemy.

The Falcon round came with two presets, the primary was intended as a high arcing shot that deployed a parachute at the apex. Beneath the parachute was hung a spin-stabilized pack with half-a-dozen different sensors, a secure transmitter, and a fairly stupid computer to run things for up to ten minutes, or even more depending on local gravity and atmospheric density. The second preset was intended for range, rather than height, and didn't deploy the parachute at all. Instead the round would sweep a swatch of terrain a quarter-klick wide and five or more klicks long.

"_Quarterhorse_-Six. This is Five."

"Go ahead, George," I told my XO.

"We're in among the mech hangers now, boss. I've got one company of machines accounted for, but there are bays for five. Two of the hangers are brand new, but I figure why build bays for mechs you haven't got?"

"Unless they're still in transit," I replied. "What kinds?"

"We've seen a lot of old bugs. Cheap training models, mostly, though I've seen one _Crockett_. We're securing the rest of the facilities."

So George went off to do my job while we approached the ridge-line. The Falcon-rounds reported no signs of the enemy so I started over the ridge.

"Hold up, Colonel," Howie said. "Kael, you lead."

As organized each of the command lances was filled with three assault mechs (Cavalry-versions of a _King Crab _and a _Pillager_ in the –two and –three slots, with a similarly modified _Longbow_ to provide fire support). This had the effect of making us the biggest hammers (and targets) around, but also put the commanders behind the most armor. George's –three had lost a leg at the knee during the fun and games on Ridderkirk and his mech would be in the shop for at least a week yet while the new limb was attached and calibrated. Under the circumstances I'd traded over Maria Chan and grabbed up Kael Dunbar whose mech had taken the miss-jump hard enough to require a complete overhaul.

He was test-jock certified—one school I had never managed to attend—which helped explain how he'd been able to get the only _Devastator_ ever built to Black Watch standards.

Now he cautiously crested the ridge and started down the other side. We followed after at a sedate pace, half-keeping watch for the enemy, but mostly concerned with not putting a foot out of place on a treacherous slope.

The ambush, when it came, was about as slick and professional a job as ever I had seen…or it was, right up until the moment they sprung it early.

The valleys were lousy with iron deposits that made magnetic-resolution scans problematic at best, and they'd had plenty of time to get under thermal and pattern disruptive blankets. Coupled with the light forest they were in it had been sufficient to hide from the Falcons, and with their reactors shut down we hadn't even gotten a hit on a neutrino scan. Possibly it went even further than that, a hide prepared well in advance and incorporating all manner of technical goodies designed to hide the mechs concealed within.

The area was a kind of natural crossroads which should have been my first clue. Downstream—one feature that practically every ridge-valley in temperate climates has is a central stream running smack down the center—it widened out into a marsh. Upstream the forest turned unpleasantly dense. Both would have restricted our mobility, and the latter our range advantage, hence my choice of crossing points. The ridge opposite wasn't quite what I would call a 'pass'. Truthfully, the ridges weren't serious enough to even _have_ passes. And while not a pass in the conventional sense, this one had a much more gradual incline for a stretch of about a quarter-klick both going up and down, with only some light forest between us and it.

What they should have done, provided they had the capability, was position themselves higher on the slope we were traversing with its dangerous footing where their nimbler—which isn't the same thing as fast or maneuverable and something that a lot of people forget about—machines would have had a flat-out advantage over us; or, if they didn't have a choice, waited until we were in amongst them in the forest and they could concentrate fire effectively. In among us where most of our advantages were limited and we had to carefully pick targets to avoid blue-on-blue fire and they would have had shots at the thinner armor on the back of our mechs, we would have taken a terrible pounding. Given the disparity in numbers and the advantage of surprise they might even have succeeded in taking us out—though no doubt at a stiff price and ultimately futile given the forces we had on the planet.

Now they crash-started their fusion plants, threw off pattern- and heat-disruptive camouflage cloaks, and charged.

There are exactly two kinds of ambushes in the parlance of mech vs mech combat, 'close' and 'far', each had a response that was diametrically opposed to the other and being able to make the right call is one of the ways of distinguishing the battlefield tactician and the book-taught scholar. In 'Ambush far', the ambushee grabs what cover (i.e., terrain features) is at hand and uses fire and maneuver to turn on and overwhelm the ambusher. In 'ambush close' the ambushee turns and charges the ambusher, hoping to get within his ranks and devolve combat to a chaotic brawl.

I took one look, decided that charging heavies and assault-class mechs with lights was not the act of a sane mind, and snapped out: "ambush far!" as I split to the left.

Kael followed after me while Howie and Curt went right, the artillery and air-defense mechs splitting up with us.

Ropes of silver-blue lightning lashed out from Kael's _Devestator_, and a _Locust_ simply vanished into a blast of fire and greasy black smoke. A _Commando_ was overtaken by the destruction of its partner. It too exploded and I suddenly understood the apparent lack of sanity on the part of the other side's commander.

"Suicide jocks!" Howie snapped into the AVIX battle-link before I could.

There was quite a bit of empty space in a mech, if you knew where to look, and it looked like these had been filled to the maintenance hatches with stuff that went boom. _Durandal_ opened a window in the holographic environment, filled with a color-coded representation of a molecule of—

"Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramin e," _Durandal_ informed me as a _Wasp_ blew itself apart under my guns. "Common names include cyclonite, hexogen, and RDX. Originally developed for military use in the late nineteenth century, it remained a staple for most of the next two centuries. Due to stability and low shock and friction reactivity it was in common use for controlled demolitions up to the Event."

The next thirty seconds were too one-sided to be called a battle. 'Massacre' didn't begin to describe it. They charged, we maneuvered to keep the range open. They tried to get into range of their pop-guns, we opened fire at maximum range and one solid hit was often all it took. Usually the ensuing explosion would take out another, or two, or three additional mechs. They got into autocannon range, 'Berta dropped her artillery cannons into direct-fire mode. A few managed to get closer, and the air-defense section opened up and even the flak rounds in their MetalStorm cannons were more than effective against their minimal armor.

Even the engineers got in on it.

A plasma bolt caught a _Flea_ streaking streaking across the open ground in the knee. For a moment the actuator was a molten glob of composites and battle-steel, the next it had solidified into an unmoving chunk of scrap. The upper leg was sheared off, and moving at a hundred-twenty klicks plus an hour, there was no time for the pilot to do anything except hang on as his mech plowed into the burning grass and rolled for another sixty meters before exploding.

George's report of what he had encountered seemed to be the way all of the War College's mech-companies were organized. Most of them were light, cheap and aging mechs that quickly died. The longest lived were a pair of _Crockett_s that while old, were anything but light. They were also slow, which is how they managed to live so long. One dinged my armor with a 155mm slug at extreme range, then hopped out of my targeting brackets on pillars of blue-white plasma. It was an old trick and these people had clearly never managed to remove the limiters that prevented engaging targets while in mid-jump because he didn't take the opportunity to continue shooting down at me.

It was an effective enough tactic against most mechs. But it had been intended that the _Crockett_ jump over its target and engage its rear armor. As it was, I had engaged from too far out. The jump evaded my fire but the other pilot didn't have the range to clear _Durandal_ and it left him hanging there for half of eternity. Plenty of time for me to shift my point of aim, and the concentrated fire from my command lance blew him apart. I shifted towards the second just in time to see Roberta's section lay down a direct-fire rolling barrage like old-fashioned muzzle-loaded artillery.

There were very few pieces.


End file.
